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M- 



LIPPINCOTTS 
MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



A POPULAR JOURNAL 
OF GENERAL LITERATURE 





VOL. LXXIV. JULY TO DECEMBER, 1904 



PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. L1PPINCOTT COMPANY 
1904 



6 o (* (f 

Kef: 



COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY 
J. B. LJPPINCOTT COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Abbot of Bon- Accord, The .... Phoebe Lyde 765 

According to Lady Moyle .... Baroness von Hutten .... 251 

About Isabel Canning. 
According to Lady Moyle .... Baroness von Hutten .... 787 

About Mademoiselle Ziska. 

Appendix B Vincent Harper 234 

Baby Goes A-Fishing, The .... Cyrus Townscnd Brady ... 56 
Barlow and the Octopus .... Arthur Hendrick Vandenberg . . Ill 

" Because of Nellie" Bertha H. Lippincott .... 82 

Billets-Doux Thomas Cobb 756 

Book of the Hour, The Churchill Williams 664 

Boy that Couldn't Stand Fire, The . General Charles King .... 749 

Brindle-Boy Eleanor A. Hallowell .... 454 

Court of Pan, The Elizabeth Duer . . . . . .61 

Crustacean Courtship, A .... Mabel Nelson Thurston . . . 738 

Dark Horse, The Alfred Stoddart 480 

Darling Traitor, A Alden March 673 

Deep Waters of the Proud, The . . Francis Willing Wharton . . . 257 

Delayed Heritage, A Eleanor H. Porter 115 

Emancipation of Lydia Duroe, The . Mabel Nelson Thurston .... 96 

Final Selection Gay Bentley Wuerpel .... 498 

Ghost in the Red Shirt, The . . . B. M. Bower 121 

Gladstone's Friendship with Lord 

Acton, Mr Hon. Maud Lyttelton .... 610 

Graduates of the School .... Cyrus Townsend Brady .... 378 

" Help Wanted, Females" .... Alden March 340 

Ischia: A Tale and a Tour . . . Maud Howe 223 

Lad's Love, A Karl Edioin Harriman .... 385 

Lazzaparoola, The Edward Boltwood 90 

Legends and Pageants of Venice . . William Roscoe Thayer . . . 637 

Love Affair of a Princess, The . . . Lafayette McLaws 1 

" Marooned" Mary Moss 244 

Metamorphosis of Phil Barrett, The . Albert Payson Terhune .... 617 

Mixed Pairs Helen Sherman Griffith .... 626 

Moods and Memories, III., IV., V. . George Moore 42 

Moods and Memories, VI. . . . George Moore ...... 202 

Moses, Jr Ella Middleton Tybout .... 74 

Old English Sacred Drama .... Prof. Felix E. Schelling . , . 441 
Old Home Week in Bohemia . . . Eleanor A. Hallowell .... 207 

Piute Tragedy or Comedy, A . . . Emanuel Lissner 242 

Prisoner of Mademoiselle de Bien- j 

court, The Charles G. D. Roberts . . . .513 

Regeneration of Isaiah, The . . . Ella Middleton Tybout . . . . 353 
Regular and the Savage, The . . . Lieut. L. B., United States Army 731 

Release, The Ina Brevoort Roberts .... 361 

Return of Sister Juliana, The . . Ella Middleton Tybout .... 506 

Rome at Easter Maud Hoice 330 

Sacrifice of Nabla, The Seumas McManus 216 

Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth . . Caroline Lockhart 370 

Shears of Destiny, The Clinton Dangerfield 796 

Sign of the Waxen Woman, At the . Clinton Dangerfield 348 

Social Logic Maude Roosevelt 129 

Tale of a Cad, The Alison M. Lederer 666 

Thread of Scarlet, A Jennette Lee 105 

Tragic Child, The Prince Vladimir Vaniatsky . . 650 

Tragic Touch, The Francis Howard Williams . . . 463 

Undo Luke's Downfall C. T. Revere 657 

Waywardness of Susan, The . . . Luellen Cass Teters 469 

Winter Window-Garden, The . . . Eben E. Rexford 488 

iii 



POETRY 



Afterglow . . . ' . 

Anne Hathaway 

Artist, The 

As from Afar 

Autumn Minstrelsy 

Ballade of Bal Bullier, A ... 
Cathedral at Burgos, The . 
Child Reading, To a . . . . 
Coming of Love, The .... 

Compensation 

Dearest, My 

Doorway, The 

Dust, The 

Entranced 

Even as These 

Farm Child's Lullaby, The . . 

Forest, The 

Fox-People, The 

Golden Legacy, The 

Guide, A 

Highway, The 

Home-Sick 

" Home, Sweet Home" House, The 

Lark, A 

Love's Sepulture 

Magdalena 

Maid of Sparta, The .... 

Moods 

Morning 

Night, At 

Noel of the Kings. The .... 
Northman's Christmas Tale. The . 

October 

Old St. David's 

Path of the Moon, The .... 

Plan, My . . . ... 

Religion of the Wood, The 

Returning 

Shifting Colors 

Silent Hour, The 

Sorcery 

Southern Honey Locust, The . 
Southern Moonlight .... 
Special Delivery, By .... 

Sunken Fleet. The 

Thanksgiving, A 

True Miracle, The 

Twilight 

Two Friends 

Victory 

Who Hath Not Faced? .... 
Who Stand and Wait 



Mary Findlater 
Ethna Carbery 
Frank Roe 
Florence Earle Coates . 
Clinton Scollard 
Frank Roe Batchelder . 

S. R. Elliott 

Edward Doyle .... 
Ethna Carbery .... 
Paul Laurence Dunbar . 
Ethna Carbery .... 

Ella Heath ' 

Lisette Woodworth Reese . 
Frank H. Sweet .... 
Ellen Gray Barbour 
Paul Laurence Dunbar . 
Katherine G. Terry . 
Elsie Cassien King . 
Clarence Urmy .... 
Richard Kirk .... 
Louise Driscoll .... 
Cora A. Matson Dolson 
Roscoe Brumbaugh . 
Lizette Woodworth Reese . 
Carrie Blake Morgan . 

Elsa Barker 

Aloysius Coll 
Blanche Trennor Heath 
Emma P. Seabury . 
Edmund Vance Cooke 
Thomas Walsh .... 
Chester Firkins .... 
Lulu Clark Markham 
Florence Earle Coates . 
Maurice Francis Egan . 
Daniel Kelley .... 
Aloysius Coll .... 
William Wallace Whitelock 

Agnes Lee 

J. J. Frank 

Carrie Blake Moraan 
Lilian C. B. McAllister 
Clinton Kcollard 
Dixie Wol"itt .... 
Francis Halley Newton 
Emily Read Jones 
Richard Kirk .... 
Paul Laurence Dunbar . 

Elsa Barker 

A fines Lee 

Chester Firkins .... 
Martha Trimble Bennett 



PAGE 
. 497 
. 478 
. 468 
. 609 
. 625 
. $243 
. 89 
. 795 
. 649 
. 786 
. 369 
. 95 
. 764 
. 256 
. 462 
. 201 
. 347 
. 352 
. 776 
. 60 
. 215 
. 222 
. 656 
. 339 
. 665 
. 462 
. 73 
. 250 
. 128 
. 339 
. 737 
. 748 
. 384 
. 40 
. 755 
. 512 
. 233 
. 663 
. 786 
. 487 
. 377 
. 206 

222 
. 453 
. 120 
. 636 
. 672 
. 497 
. 800 
. 468 
. 505 
. 616 



VOL. LXXIV NUMBER 439 

LIPPINCOTT'S 

MONTHLY MAGAZINE 

JULY, 1904 





THE LOVE AFFAIR OF A PRINCESS 

BY LAFAYETTE McLAWS 
Author of " When the Land was Young " "Jezebel" etc. 



" T T TE followed you, Monsieur, to regain the little packet pro- 

\/\/ cured from the Princess Boyale." The exaggerated cour- 
tesy of the speaker's manner emphasized the shadow of 
a sneer in his voice. " Doubtless, Monsieur, for a suitable remuneration 
you may be induced to part with it. What is your price ?" 

" That, my Lord." The young Englishman struck the Count of 
Soissons full in the face with the back of his gloved hand. 

The Count's face flamed scarlet with rage; he whipped out his 
sword and came at him. With a sharp movement the young English- 
man lifted the butt of his riding-whip, and the Frenchman's sword 
fell rattling to the ground as two young gentlemen of fashion and 
their dozen serving-men sprang forward to separate them. 

First livid with shame at the exposure of his cowardice, then black 
with impotent rage, the Frenchman sputtered forth incoherent threat- 
enings. The Englishman remarked with a graceful gesture of apology : 
" You took me by surprise, my Lord. In England gentlemen are not 
so courageous we fear to attack an unarmed man." 

" You struck me, you low-born English scullion. You dared to 
raise your hand against a prince of France." 

The young Englishman lifted his brows, smiling indulgently. 
"With two good swords between us I had dared do more! You, my 
Lord, are more courageous, you needed but half that number. Ah, 
gentlemen !" he exclaimed with enthusiasm, gazing in candid good- 
humor on the young gentlemen of fashion, both friends of Soissons, 
" one has only to become acquainted with the Count of Soissons to 



2 The Love Affair of a Princess 

cease to marvel that the gentlemen of France are so famed for their 
courage." 

Dumb with rage, Soissons glared as only a courageous man can 
when he finds himself checkmated by an unesteemed rival. Then his 
face changed and his manner became the quintessence of contemptuous 
courtesy. "Ah, Monsieur, I must apologize for the unreasonable cus- 
toms of my poor country. In France gentlemen fight only men of 
station, they may not cross swords with a stable boy, an English 
peasant." 

" An English peasant ?" the Englishman questioned sharply. " No, 
no, no ! English gentleman, my Lord Thomas Stanley, gentleman." 

" English gentleman ! Monsieur, I acknowledge my error, an Eng- 
lish gentleman ! A suitable lover for the daughter of the great Henry 
of Navarre, Henriette Marie, the Princess Eoyale of France. The 
French nation is honored! Ha, ha, ha!" The Count of Soissons' 
laugh was contemptuous and contemptible. " My brothers, now we 
understand why our peerless Princess has looked so coldly on us men 
of station. She has inherited the unbridled passion of her kingly 
father, his bourgeois taste, and " 

The Englishman made a peremptory gesture of remonstrance, then 
said with grave courtesy : " My Lord, you have but just taught me that 
French gentlemen do not fear to attack an unarmed man ; pray do not 
make me know that they do not hesitate to soil a woman's fair name. 
It is too much, too hard a lesson for an Englishman to master in one 
day." 

The Frenchman's face flushed with rage, but he continued his 
assumption of jeering courtesy. " Monsieur is kind to correct my little 
errors of deportment. I feel myself honored to have for my instructor 
so exalted a personage, an English gentleman." 

"Yes, my Lord, you, with these same gentlemen, stood about the 
Lord Chamberlain to the Queen of France, the courteous Duke of 
Montbazon, when he questioned concerning the name and station of 
my friend and me. We were among the crowd from the city that 
thronged about the palace to gaze upon the royal family. As you, my 
Lord, remarked, I did not take my eyes from Madame Eoyale as she 
danced with the Queen and little Monsieur in the practice of their 
masque. I make no denial. Why should I or any other who has 
the heart of a man? Were I blind I believe the sound of her voice 
would cause me to see again, and once seeing I would know myself in 
Heaven. Ah, my Lord Duke," turning towards the young Duke of 
Nevers, "you are truly favored by the Gods. Though an exile from 
incomparable Italy, you are permitted to serve in the presence of a 
most glorious divinity." 

The Italian replied with gracious condescension: "I thank Mon- 



The Love Affair of a Princess 3 

sieur for his praise of my native land. Though I come to this exploit 
as a friend of M. le Comte de Soissons, I wish to assure Monsieur of 
my appreciation of his conduct, his courtesy, his courage." 

" Courage ? Insolence I" the Count of Soissons cried, made so 
furious by the apparent defection of his friend that he forgot his 
assumption of exaggerated courtesy. " I shall see to it that the King 
learns of this insolence. He will know how to punish such imper- 
tinence." 

" Impertinence V Stanley exclaimed, amazed. " Those among 
whom I stood to gaze upon Madame Eoyale were the common people, 
beggars from the streets of Paris. Surely, my Lord, your law does not 
forbid strangers passing through France to use their eyes in gazing 
upon the beauties which one meets on every side?" His manner was 
one of sincere inquiry. 

"No, Monsieur," Soissons answered, "use your eyes as you wish, 
but see to it in the future that only your eyes touch the Princess 
Eoyale of France." 

"Touch her only with my eyes!" Stanley started back in shocked 
surprise. " My Lord, you do not fully understand the words you 
speak. The Princess Henriette Marie was in danger. Her horse took 
fright and might have injured her seriously, perhaps fatally. I stopped 
the terrified beast, helped the Princess to dismount, and did all that 
lay in my humble power to quiet her fears until her people arrived. I 
would willingly have done as much for any woman, the least in this 
kingdom, a beggar of the streets. It was nothing, a short gallop, 
forcing a brute to obedience. Ah, my Lord, but for this slight service 
she was so grateful, rewarded me so highly, commanded me to the 
masque ball which is danced to-night in the Palais Eoyal." He drew 
a small packet from the pocket over his heart, touching it reverently 
with his ungloved fingers. " My Lord, your Princess has the gracious- 
ness, the generosity, of an angel. She bade me seek her out among 
the dancers at the masque and gave me this token that I may recognize 
her." 

"You shall not use it," Soissons exclaimed, advancing upon him 
threateningly. " I demand its return !" 

Stanley stepped aside from his approach, then laughed lightly as 
he replied : " Ah, my Lord of Soissons, you force me to repeat myself. 
I must again say you do not understand the words you speak. This 
token is my treasure, the most precious that I possess. I shall " 

" Ah, ha ! a treasure, is it ? After all, your braggart swaggerings 
were made only that you might bleed me the more freely. So, M. di 
Gonzaga," turning to the Duke of Nevers, " you admire English 
courtesy, English courage. Bah! the villain only sought to make me 
dip the deeper into my pockets. This token of a silly girl becomes a 



4 The Love Affair of a Princess 

treasure most precious. "Pis a shrewd trick and I must admire the 
knave's cleverness. So, Monsieur, you need money for your travels ?" 

" Money ?" the Englishman's tone was witheringly contemptuous, 
though in manner he lost not one whit of his good-humor. " No, no, 
my Lord, not money. I am not a French gentleman of fashion; my 
debtors still have some slight faith in my promises. Ah, my Lord 
of Soissons, to an Englishman there are some treasures in life above 
being sold for money. The token of Madame Eoyale is such a treasure, 
valued because a proof of her gratitude. Believe me, my Lord, I shall 
guard it as my most precious possession, of more value than my life- 
blood, until such time as she shall replace it with a token of her 
love." 

"Her love? Her love?" The Frenchman's manner was that of 
one driven mad by rage. " You scullion ! you stable-boy ! you filth of 
a ditch! do you dare speak of the love of the Princess Royale of 
France ?" 

" Yes, my Lord, her love. You named me her suitor. By what 
other means could I, a simple English gentleman, hope to win her 
hand?" 

"Her hand!" 

" Yes, my Lord of Soissons, her hand." 

"Ah, M. di Gonzaga," Soissons exclaimed, again turning to de 
Nevers, " what is it now ? How do you name it, courage or insolence ? 
This English swine talks of winning the hand of the Princess Royale of 
France. Winning her hand ! Impudence ! Insolence !" 

" Impudence, insolence, granted, my Lord. So it is for any man 
to aspire to the love of a good woman. We men, you and I, my Lord, 
are so unworthy." The Englishman's manner was almost sad in the 
sincerity of his self-abasement. 

" Ah, Monsieur, you do us great honor. You put yourself on a 
footing with the men of fashion of France, princes of the blood. You 
name yourself a suitor for the hand of the Princess Royale. You 
will " 

" Tut, tut, my Lord of Soissons ! Why jeer ? Why fly into a 
temper? Surely you forget the history of your own royal family. 
Must I name the precedent? A lady, rarely beautiful and gracious, 
disdaining the protestations of your men of fashion, your princes of 
the blood, bestowed her hand on an honest English gentleman. That 
lady, gentlemen," Stanley explained, turning towards the friends of 
Soissons, " was a Queen of France." 

" You mean Mary Tudor, Monsieur ?" Soissons' face beamed with 
the smile of a man who has successfully trapped his enemy. "The 
docile, sweet-mannered Princess Louis took when in his dotage? She 



The Love Affair of a Princess 5 

was a true daughter of the family of heroes who rule you modest 
islanders. Doubtless a typical English lady" 

" Yes, my Lord, a typical English lady, and of such a true noble- 
ness that mothers still speak of her as an example to be followed by 
their young daughters. It may be as you say. Queen Mary, because 
reared among men, was able to discern the difference between the true 
and the false. Yet" the smile faded from the young Englishman's 
face and his expression was wistfully thoughtful " I cannot believe 
that power possessed by my countrywomen, the daughters of Merry 
England, only. A pure woman is like a star, like an angel " 

" Believe what you choose," Soissons interrupted. " I am tired 
of your braggart gibberish. I followed you to regain the token of the 
Princess Koyale by soft methods if your stupid English brain will 

allow you to recognize a good chance when it is offered, by force if 

Again I demand, what is the price you " 

"Again I answer, my Lord of Soissons." The Englishman lifted 
his gloved hand, but the Frenchman, starting back, escaped the blow. 

" Canaille ! Do you not know I can " 

" Why make your displeasure so manifest, my friend ?" the Count 
of Grammont, the second gentleman of Soissons' following, interrupted 
in remonstrance. " The Princess Henriette Marie is no puling, sim- 
pering maid, but of a spirit becoming the daughter of the Great 
Navarre. For my part, I admire the wilfulness of her caprices; it 
adds the spice of dare-deviltry which in a maid both beautiful and royal 
born is most fascinating. She will not brook interference of her lightest 
whim from you or any other man. Since the English gentleman 
values her token so highly, why not allow him to keep it?" 

" Permit a low-born English varlet to bring a scandal against a 
sister of the King of France ? Have the world condemn me as a fool ?" 

" A man need not be ashamed of acting the fool once or twice in 
his life, so he accomplish good by the process, but you seem to have 
no such end in view. Suit yourself, my friend, by all means suit your- 
self." With a shrug the Count of Grammont began again to converse 
with de Nevers. 

Though not convinced by the remonstrances of his friend, the 
Count of Soissons appeared more composed. He resumed his manner 
of sneering courtesy. "Doubtless, Monsieur, a gentleman of your 
boasted valor finds it embarrassing to surrender to so small a company. 
Shall I call a regiment, or perhaps " 

" A regiment, my Lord ?" the Englishman questioned, allowing 
his eyes to wander over the group of men who followed the Count of 
Soissons. "There are already three men of fashion, princes of the 
blood, and twelve serving-men. Fifteen against two me and my one 
serving-man. Now you speak of a regiment a whole regiment! I 



6 The Love Affair of a Princess 

am overcome, so much honored, my Lord. You French gentlemen of 
fashion, princes of the blood, take so much trouble, do so much all 
for the sake of a little token given by a gracious lady to an humble 
English gentleman/' 

" Monsieur, do you think you will be permitted to bring a scandal 
against the sister of the King of France? The Princess Eoyale is 
my future wife, and I will " 

" So, my Lord of Soissons, you are my rival !" 

" You English vagabond ! you dare, you have the insolence, the 
affrontery, to call yourself the rival of a French nobleman, a prince." 
In a transport of rage Soissons again unsheathed his sword. 

Stanley raised his riding-whip, and the Count, shamed at the re- 
minder, flushed scarlet. 

"Pardon me, my Lord/' Stanley said, and his tone was sincerely 
apologetic. " I thought it best to show you the nature of my one 
weapon. You see, I did not profit by your Lordship's example. I 
remain a coward. I still fear to attack an unarmed man. You were 
speaking, my Lord, naming yourself my rival." 

" I demand the token of the Princess Eoyale." 

" I refuse to give it, my Lord." 

" I will have you beat, ducked in the filthiest pool of Paris, driven 
from the country as a dog." 

" No, my Lord," Stanley replied with imperturbable good-humor, 
"you will meet me to-night at the masque, share with me the smiles 
of the Princess Koyale." 

"Fool!" 

" I am your rival." 

" My rival, ha, ha, ha !" the Frenchman laughed. He was strug- 
gling hard to regain his composure. 

"To-night we will meet at the masque. You will watch me as I 
dance with the Princess Koyale." 

" No." 

" I am sorry to contradict you, my Lord." 

The Count of Soissons grew quite calm. When he spoke again his 
manner showed interest but no passion. He asked : " Do you imagine 
you will be allowed to go to a royal masque? that there are none in 
France to protect the young daughter of Navarre? I will collect 
every man in the realm " 

"Every ruffian, I do not doubt it, my Lord." 

" I will see to it that you do not so much as reach the door." 

" You are kind, my Lord, to take so much trouble for a stranger. 
Gentlemen, the Count of Soissons seems in a hurry to depart. I make 
my adieus. My Lord, if you have any message for me any further 
instruction in the courtesies the gallantries of your country, my 



The Love Affair of a Princess 7 

address will be furnished by my serving-man my one serving-man. 
Gentlemen, my adieus, my Lord of Soissons." 

II. 

WHEN the young Englishman reached his lodgings his friend, who 
was also an Englishman, almost as young and quite as handsome as 
himself, was striding excitedly back and forth through the rooms. He 
stopped stock-still and stared at him. 

" Where have you been ?" he demanded. 

Stanley shrugged his shoulders. " Couldn't you guess ?" he asked, 
the smile on his face deepening to radiance. 

" Guess ! 'Od's blood ! How could I guess ? Haven't I been 
running back and forth, sending hither and thither, searching through 
this cursed city, ever since I opened my eyes this morning and found 
you gone? When Dick Graham learned from the keeper of the tap- 
room opposite that you had gone out booted and spurred as he was 
taking down his shutters I hurried to Holland. His varlets thought 
me an impostor, refused to summon their master, and tried to drive 
me off. I smashed the skull of one, ripped open the side of another, 
and the scoundrels were glad enough to let me pass. I found our 
noble envoy snugly wrapped in bed enjoying his morning's nap his 
snores were like the puffs and grunts of an over-fed pig. I pinked him 
in the shoulder with the point of my sword and shouted. 'Twas a 

drove of over-fed pigs ! He knew me, and Why should I explain ? 

You are not listening !" In a transport of disgust he strode across the 
floor and flung himself into a chair, his back towards Stanley, who 
broke into a peal of laughter, as though this evidence of his friend's 
anger was a huge joke. 

" You remind me of M. le Comte de Soissons," Stanley cried, con- 
trolling his fit of merriment, " you are so amiable." 

The position of the man in the chair remained unchanged. Stanley 
tried again. 

"That is a great compliment. To compare one John Brown, a 
simple English gentleman, to a Prince of Cond6. A high compliment 
-to Conde." 

The man in the chair shrugged his shoulders. Stanley laughed 
again, then, striding over, gave him a hearty slap on the back, ex- 
claiming : 

"Ah, Jack! Jack! I believe it is a fit of jealousy on the part 
of both you and Soissons. By the eternal, man, it was enough to 
make the gods themselves green ! Such eyes ! Such hair ! Such sweet 
red lips !" 

"Ah!" the man in the chair turned his head, listening. 

" She was so frightened and yet so brave. Her breath fanned my 



8 The Love Affair of a Princess 

cheek, the throbbings of her little heart were like the flutterings of a 
captured bird as I held her in my arms " 

The man threw his legs over the arm of the chair and turned, 
facing Stanley. " Where have you been ?" he interrupted. 

Stanley hesitated, his eyes twinkling with suppressed merriment; 
then he answered quite soberly, " To see Madame Eoyale on her morn- 
ing ride." 

"The devil!" 

" No, an angel." 

" You met Soissons ?" 

" No, no, my friend, the Count of Soissons followed me even me, 
a simple English gentleman, and might have spitted me with his 
sword had I not learned in Scotland the art of cowing hounds by the 
use of this more suitable weapon." He threw his riding-whip and 
gloves on the table. " Soissons followed me, demanding the return 
of the token which the Princess Eoyale commanded me to wear at the 
royal masque." 

"Royal masque?" 

" Yes, to be danced in the Palais Royal to-night." 

" We leave Paris at noon." 

For an answer Stanley drew from his breast the packet he had 
handled so reverently in the presence of Soissons. He cut the sealed 
ribbon and drew out a cockade a miniature plume, the white plume 
of Navarre. 

" My colors for to-night ! A priest's cloak and cowl, this token to 
be pinned on the inner fold and shown only at the mention of a well- 
known name." 

" Then you persist in going ?" the elder man demanded. 

" Will I break my pledge to a lady ?" Stanley questioned as a reply. 
" Such a lady ? Jack, you know my blood !" 

" I know your blood ! Yes, verily, and the wild record of your 
romantic ancestors as well. A woman's smile and the whole kingdom 
to the devil, washed in blood, while you prate about your honor, your 
sacred word. How about your sacred word to the Spaniard? Is that 
not to be considered?" 

" Ah, but may we not enjoy our travels ?" Stanley's voice was 
pathetic in its appeal, though his face was none the less cheerful. " It 
is all so beautiful, Jack, like a great garden. May I not turn aside 
for a moment to enjoy the sight, the perfume, of a rare flower?" 

"A rare flower!" his friend exclaimed in angry derision. "For- 
bidden fruit, which you must and will pluck or have your fingers 
burned in your effort." 

"By Soissons?" Stanley questioned. 

" Why not Soissons ? He claims the hand of the Princess Henrietta 



The Love Affair of a Princess 9 

Marie as a reward for great services rendered the King at the siege of 
Rochelle." 

" So he told me," replied Stanley gayly. 

" He clings to his pretentions most perniciously and will not be 
easily thwarted. He will forbid your admittance to the palace. Or 
will you appeal to Holland and Carlisle ?" 

" No, no," smiled Stanley, " I shall appeal to no one. To the 
Princess Royale, to the Duke of Montbazon, I am known as Thomas 
Stanley, English gentleman. I desire " 

"Ah," his friend interrupted, "why was it, when you changed 
your name, that you did not change your quality?" 

" Changed my name ?" Stanley showed surprise. 

" Surely ! To Monsieur Beaupoix's lodging-house and tap-room 
are you not known as Thomas Smith, an English gentleman, travelling 
simply, as becomes your station, with a friend and one serving-man? 
Yet to M. le Due de Montbazon and other French gentry who stood about 
him last night at the royal masque you named yourself Thomas Stanley. 
Since you changed your name, why not your station ? Why not become 
a duke, a count, or at least a knight ? 'Twould put you more in quality 
with the people with whom you seek to mingle. If you must be an 
imposter, why not a gentleman of fortune and rank? 'Tis not too 
late. Doubtless my Lord Holland could find titles for us both, and 
perhaps from his abundance Carlisle might be induced to supply us 
with finery suited to our new rank. As for me, I am quite willing 
for the change. I am not fool enough to prefer the insignificant 
station of a simple English gentleman when rank and station are 
within my reach. Claiming some great title, I would gladly attend the 
royal masque and be introduced as a man of fashion, a notable." 

" If you wish it, why not ?" Stanley ejaculated. " The old Duke 
of Colloden, recently dead, left none to succeed him. If Lord Holland 
should see fit to declare you heir, by the favor of King James, to both 
the titles and estates of the lamented peer there are none in France to 
contradict. If the rumor should spread to England, reach the ears of 
the King, I doubt me if our punishment would be too severe. A 
whisper to my Lord of Holland, a promise to Carlisle, and behold 
John Brown, one time an humble English gentleman, becomes a man of 
fashion, a notable." 

"And you, you will follow my example?" 

Stanley shook his head. "No," he said, "I must attend the 
masque in my true character, English gentleman, an honest man, laying 
claims to neither fortune nor rank. Knowing my quality, the Prin- 
cess Royale commanded my presence, bade me seek her out, gave me 
her token. I shall do her bidding. To-night I, an English gentleman, 
shall attend a royal masque in the palace of the King of France, 



10 The Love Affair of a Princess 

mingle with the gentlemen of fashion, princes of the blood, and per- 
haps/' his manner was whimsically joyous, " I may share with them 
the smiles of the lady whose favor they all seek." 

" Or receive their insults and jeers, perhaps a sound basting at the 
hands of their ruffians/' Brown rejoined. 

" No, no, Jack, not blows," Stanley cried gayly. " You shall 
protect me. Since you were so loath to taste the joys of the lady's 
smiles you shall swallow the spite of her cowardly suitors. I shall 
set out for the ball as becomes an English gentleman of small fortune, 
attended by my one serving-man, my fine clothes covered by my priest's 
cloak. While you his Grace of Colloden," sweeping Brown a pro- 
found bow, "with your retinue of servants and guards shall follow 
not too close. When the attack comes, if I be hard pressed you will 
to the rescue. With a guard so naturally obtained we shall reach 
the ball me with my little token, you with fortune and rank. We 
shall see ! We shall see ! Ah, Jack ! before this night is gone we 
may be able to judge of the true worth of a woman's heart." 

" Or the weight of a ruffian's cudgel." 

III. 

STANLEY was true to his word. He did as he threatened, although 
events did not happen as he had planned. Covered by the cloak and 
cowl of a priest, and followed by his one serving-man, he had scarcely 
passed the first turn in the street when he found his way barred by 
six men. In an instant his sword was out, his priest's clothes thrown 
off, and the leader had much to do to defend himself. 

He smote so swiftly and persistently that his antagonist was driven 
rapidly back, although his play proved him a good swordsman. Back, 
back, the swift, relentless flashes of the keen blade forced him to a 
retreat that was almost a quick-step. With a sharp exclamation, the 
first sound to escape either of them since the fray began, he sprang to 
one side and cast his sword rattling at Stanley's feet. 

" An Englishman fears to attack an unarmed man, Monsieur ?" 
he questioned as he folded his arms across his breast. 

" Ah !" Stanley cried, amazed. Then snatching the lantern from- 
his serving-man he flashed it full into the Frenchman's face. " What ?" 
he questioned as though still more amazed, and striding forward he 
thrust the light nearer the man's face. "What, de Grammont the 
Count de Grammont?" 

" Monsieur has a good memory as well as a ready sword," the 
Frenchman replied in smiling acquiescence. 

" I knew you to be a villain/' Stanley said, " but I thought you 
were a gentleman." 



The Love Affair of a Princess 11 

" Monsieur is quick, therefore an incompetent judge/' The French- 
man still smiled, his manner imperturbably courteous. 

"I met you this morning as a friend of Soissons in a cowardly 
enterprise, though apparently favoring fair play. To-night I meet 
you " 

" To-night you find me still the friend of Soissons, Monsieur, still 
an advocate for fair play," de Grammont interrupted. 

" Soissons, ruffian, assassin I" Stanley rejoined. 

"No, Monsieur, an advocate for fair play," Grammont repeated 
firmly. Stepping somewhat apart, as though to escape the ears of his 
servants, he motioned for Stanley to follow. Seeing him hesitate, he 
added, " Surely an Englishman does not fear an unarmed man." 

" Are you ever an object to be feared, my Lord, you or any who 
would come as a friend of Soissons?" Stanley questioned, and he 
handed his sword to his serving-man and strode forward. 

"Though I remain a firm friend of the Count de Soissons, Mon- 
sieur, I come to-night as an advocate of fair play," Grammont answered 
with calm dignity, then added in a lower voice: "Your disguise is 
discovered, and on every street approaching the Palais Eoyal are 
stationed soldiers ruffians if you choose to take, kill, if need be, 
all wearing the garments of a priest who are unable to give the chosen 
password. The password, Monsieur, is 'For the daughter of Na- 
varre/ r ' 

For a moment there was silence. The two men stood gazing at 
each other as though each strove to read the thoughts of the other. 
Finally the Englishman asked, 

"You tell me this, my Lord, why?" 

"I am an advocate of fair play, Monsieur," Grammont answered; 
then he hesitated, but as Stanley was about to speak he raised his hand 
and stopped him, continuing : " If you should succeed in entering the 
masque a greater danger awaits you, surer death. You will find the 
disguise you have selected a common one; the cloak and cowl of the 
priesthood will meet you at every turn. The password will not pro- 
tect you, Monsieur, will not save you from their poisoned daggers." 

"And this, my Lord, this last bit of information, is it given be- 
cause of your fondness for fair play?" 

" Because I would advise you to be discreet." 

" My Lord, discretion has two meanings tell it not, do it not. 
The first you certainly have not considered, the second being a friend 
of the Count of Soissons you will doubtless advise as discreet that 
I obey his command and make no attempt to attend the royal masque." 

The Count of Grammont laughed. " On the contrary, I advise you 
to attend the masque, Monsieur. I come of a family who have no 
enthusiasms, no illusions, and but few scandals. The reason is because 



12 The Love Affair of a Princess 

we give to our wives and our daughters the same freedom we demand 
for ourselves. I would see the Princess Henriette Marie have her 
will. She commanded your presence, gave you her token. If she desires 
an affair de cceur, un petit affair, Monsieur, with an English gentle- 
man, she shall have it. Let a woman have her way ; it's the surest means 
of curing her of fancies. You have the word which secures your 
passage through the streets. With a discreet tongue and this little 
token pinned on the inner fold of your priest's cloak, over your heart, 
Monsieur, you will be safe from their daggers." 

He extended his hand to the Englishman. On his palm lay a 
miniature plume, the white plume of Navarre, the exact counterpart of 
the token given that morning by the Princess Eoyale. If the English- 
man felt surprise, he made no show of it. Accepting the proffered 
token he exclaimed gayly: 

" My gratitude, my Lord, my deepest gratitude ! I am honored 
indeed! This morning the Count of Soissons instructs me in the 
customs at arms of this beautiful country, this evening you, his friend, 
instruct me in its courtesies. Is there nothing more, my Lord, no 
further instructions ?" 

The Count de Grammont's voice was as gay, as free from concern, 
as the Englishman's own. He replied : " But one, Monsieur, one more 
suggestion. As I make my adieux I would suggest that you do not 
join your confrere, M. le Due de Colloden, now, but after at the end 
of the ball retire in his company." 

In an instant Stanley was alone with his serving-man. Another 
instant, covered by his disguise, he was on his way to attend the royal 
masque. Down the street, at the crossing of a dark, narrow lane, he 
was halted and forced to give de Grammont's password. As he moved 
away from the ruffian spies of de Soissons a woman passed, brushing 
against him with unnecessary violence. Instinctively he looked after 
her as she flitted down the gloomy lane. She faced him, held up her 
hand, two fingers extended, and motioned for him to follow. He 
hesitated. Again those two extended fingers and the signal to follow. 

He glanced, smiling, at his serving-man. " Further instructions 
from the Count of Soissons," he said, with a depreciating shrug of his 
shoulders, "from the lips of a woman both fair and young. We will 
obey her summons, Dick." With a light laugh he turned into the lane, 
regardless of Dick Graham's remonstrance. 

On they hastened after the flitting figure through the intricacies of 
dark, unpaved lanes and courts, through which, however, the girl pro- 
ceeded as along a way well known to her. She was going more and 
more rapidly, glancing back more frequently and always with those two 
extended fingers. The lane through which they passed was sloping and 
unpaved and at every step became muddier. 



The Love Affair of a Princess 13 

" Have a care !" It was Dick Graham's voice. 

Stanley glanced back over his shoulder. He perceived something 
of a most extraordinary appearance. Here and there, all the way 
along the lane, moved a number of indistinct, shapeless masses, follow- 
ing them. 

There was an inarticulate cry, almost a scream. The girl was 
making frantic signals to them to hasten. Stanley began to run. He 
could hear Dick Graham keeping pace with him. Then there were 
other sounds, other steps running. He glanced behind. Graham's 
face shone white and drawn in the faint light of his lantern, and 
those others, those shapeless masses, had become living creatures, men 
in strange, fluttering garments following hard on their heels. 

Another call from the girl. He felt himself dragged, shoved 
through a doorway, and heard the door close with a quick bang. 
There was a confused moment in which he was conscious of being in a 
dilapidated hovel with Dick Graham, a hideous old hag, and the girl 
he had followed, and that outside the hut seemed swarming with 
creatures struggling to enter. The next moment he was at the heels 
of the girl climbing a ladder to the loft, another ladder and they were 
in a narrow passage between stone walls. 

"It was the guard, your Eeverence," the girl said, after halting 
a moment to draw breath. " They seek a young Englishman who goes 
to the masque disguised as a priest ; that they may catch him the easier 
they also wear priests' clothes. They recognized me as coming from 
the palace, and fancying you were the Englishman, thought I led you 
to the Princess Henriette Marie." 

" Then you do not lead me to the Princess ?" Stanley asked. 

The girl shook her head. "To Mademoiselle de Monglat," she 
answered. " It was her old nurse who sent me. She said, ' Watch 
before Notre Dame, and when Father Ambrose passes on his way from 
vespers bring him to Mademoiselle by way of the secret passage from 
the hut of Pont St. Michel/ She bade me make haste, your Eeverence." 

" Dick," Stanley whispered as they followed the girl, almost run- 
ning down the passage, " Mademoiselle de Monglat, who is she ?" 

" The governess and confidential friend of Madame Eoyale. Her 
mother, Madame de Monglat, was the nurse to whom Henry of Navarre 
intrusted all his children from their birth," the serving-man answered. 

The stone passage appeared to have as many branches, with steps 
both up and down, as the lane along which they had been hurried 
had corners and blind alleys. The end too was as unexpected. After 
a sharp turn they came upon the girl standing before an open door. 
Stanley stepped through into a dimly lighted hall. The girl led on to 
a heavily curtained room with a solitary occupant, an old woman, 
who sat crooning over a fire. 



14 The Love Affair of a Princess 

" Holy Father/' she cried, coming reverently forward to where 
Stanley stopped near the centre of the room. 

Then, catching sight of the girl behind the priest's garments, she 
darted upon her, cuffed her soundly, all the while uttering a torrent 
of abusive reproaches, and ended by ordering her from the room. 

" 'Tis less than she deserves, your Eeverence," she explained, drop- 
ping on her knees before Stanley. " I sent her in a hurry to fetch 
you. See all these hours she has wasted ! She should have a dungeon 
and bread and water for a week. And Mademoiselle ! It is Mademoi- 
selle de Monglat, holy Father, who stands in need of you. Her con- 
science troubles her: she fears she has committed a grievous sin in 
planning the death of a man." 

Stanley lifted his hand as though reproaching her for attributing 
so terrible a crime to her mistress. Again she sank to her knees. 

"It was the young Englishman, your Eeverence, and she feared 
for the Princess Henriette. When she discovered the disguise which 
the Princess had planned for him to wear to the masque, she sent for 
M. le Comte de Soissons and with him planned the destruction of the 
young man. She is most wretched, and prays that your Eeverence 
remain to hear her confession on her return from the masque." 

Stanley bowed his head, covering his face with his hands. He 
wondered if it was an attitude usual with Father Ambrose. He lifted 
his head. 

" No, I will not wait her return," he said, and his voice was 
heavy with seriousness. " She needs me now. I will follow her. Go, 
daughter, and command a guard to conduct me to the masque." 

In the street before the Palais Eoyal he halted the captain of the 
King's Guards. "Has the young Englishman been taken?" he asked. 

" No, your Eeverence," the soldier replied. " It is rumored that 
he got wind of M. le Comte de Soissons' intentions and fled from 
Paris before sunset." 

" He was most wise," Stanley said, and, acknowledging the guard's 
salute, walked gravely on towards the palace. 

Once within the palace he found himself hemmed in by priests' 
cloaks. One pressing closer than the others plucked him by the shoul- 
der, asking, 

"Of what order, brother ?" The voice was muffled, yet not so much 
but he recognized the Count of Soissons. Eemembering de Gram- 
mont's caution, he made no reply, except to open the fold of his cloak. 

" Of the order of the white plume," Soissons' voice, no longer 
muffled, announced, and the other priests' cloaks flitted away, mingling 
with the merrier masquers. 

There was a hush, followed by a mannerly babble of voices on the 
entrance of two ladies, masked and dressed as shepherdesses. So 



The Love Affair of a Princess 15 

exactly alike were they that one must needs see them together to 
recognize a difference. The smaller, and some darker, of the two the 
babbling voices declared was Madame Eoyale, the Princess Henriette 
Marie. This assertion was confirmed to the satisfaction of all present 
when immediately on her entrance she was joined by a gorgeously 
dressed gentleman, who, now that he had removed the cloak and cowl 
of the priesthood, it took small pains to recognize as M. le Comte de 
Soissons, younger brother to the Prince of Conde and cousin to the 
King of France. Who had a better right to the place of honor at the 
side of the beautiful daughter of Navarre? the babblers questioned, 
and straightway they began to chatter about the approaching betrothal 
of the pair. Soissons was rich, powerful, of royal blood, and had 
rendered great service at the siege of Eochelle. The Princess favored 
him; only the consent of the Queen Mother was lacking. The bab- 
blers shrugged their shoulders. It was well known that the Queen 
Mother had cherished other and more ambitious schemes for this 
favorite child, but it was also well known that the influence of the 
Queen Mother was on the wane. So again they began to chatter 
about an early betrothal and the palpable evidences of affection which 
Princess Henriette bestowed on her cousin. 

Stanley listened and looked. He also saw the graciousness with 
which she accepted the attentions of Soissons, for him turning away 
from all the other suitors who thronged about her. He caught the 
flash of the radiant smile with which she answered a remark whispered 
in her dainty, shell-like ear by her cousin, and turned aside from a 
nearer approach with a tightening about the heart that was almost a 
spasm of pain. So, after all, it was title, rank, not the man himself. 
Only that morning she had given him such a smile, looked into his 
eyes even the thought of it was like wine, driving the blood hot 
through his veins. Each moment since he had lived in Paradise, a 
fool's Paradise, had faced death a dozen times all for a woman's 
whim. Bah! Since he so longed for the smiles, the favor of the fair 
lady, he should have followed the example of his friend, assumed the 
title of some great man, a duke, a prince the Prince of Wales himself, 
why not? He turned to look for his friend. His eyes had not far to 
travel. 

Though having arrived in Paris for the first time that morning, and 
but a few minutes before entered the royal masque in the company of 
the English Minister, it was evident to the blindest that his Grace the 
Duke of Colloden was a most accomplished courtier and understood 
perfectly the art of pleasing women. He held the place of honor at 
the side of the taller shepherdess, who all the world all the world of 
royal masquers knew to be her Majesty the Queen of France. Though 
her Majesty smiled graciously on all her little court, his Grace held 



16 The Love Affair of a Princess 

her ear and took no more trouble to conceal the ardor of his passion 
than he did the marvellous beauty of his face. Gorgeous in a splendid 
suit, borrowed of the foppish Carlisle, he wore no disguise except a 
half-face masque which from time to time he removed that Madam 
the Queen might the better understand his bold worship. Stanley 
noted the scene, the man's too evident infatuation, the lady's willing 
acceptance. Were women so won? he questioned, all women? 

He turned again towards the brilliant figure of the smaller shep- 
herdess. The Count of Soissons still hovered at her side, whispering 
compliments into her ears. Certainly she would have small chance 
for secretly exchanging signals with anyone under the eyes of this 
persistent suitor. Stanley's lips twisted into a mocking smile. Per- 
haps after the morning's episode the Count of Soissons felt it necessary 
to be persistent. Well, since she had promised him a signal he would 
go within reach of her eyes, give her an opportunity for recognition. 
He pushed forward, making his way through the throng of men who 
fluttered around her. He would at least hear the sound of her voice, 
be near her when all the masques were removed. Soissons whispered 
in her ear. She laughed. He stopped, puzzled. It was not the sound 
he had expected. She was about to speak. He leaned forward, strain- 
ing his ears. 

" Ah, Monsieur, vos coeurs ?" 

His heart bounded, then stopped, chilled. It was not her voice, 
not the voice that had been singing in his heart since morning. Oh, 
no, that was not possible. Someone plucked his cloak, gently but 
decidedly. A little nun stood at his side timidly claiming his at- 
tention. 

"Is it the frivolity, the emptiness, of the world that so disturbs 
you, Father ?" 

His heart bounded, his blood coursed throbbing through his veins. 
Again he felt the cool breath of the early morning in the forest and 
the birds were singing in the trees overhead. 

" My Princess ! My Princess !" he cried, bowing low before her, 
his voice all atremble. " It was only a dream." 

" Was it not a pleasant dream ?" 

" Unspeakably horrible !" he told her. " But what would not one 
willingly dream, dream and endure, for such an awakening." 

" But are you sure of your awakening ? You have asked no token, 
received no sign, no signal," she cautioned, leading him aside and into 
a small withdrawing-room. 

"Ah, Mademoiselle," he cried, his voice vibrant with emotion, 
" when the soul speaks what token is necessary if in the heart there is 
there is " He put out his hand to her. 

She half turned to him, her eyes like stars. "Hush!" she whis- 



The Love Affair of a Princess 17 

pered, " the clock is on the stroke of twelve the time for the revellers 
to unmask and the dance to begin/' 

" You dance ?" he questioned. " You dance with " 

"In your country is it not does not the gentlemen invite the 
lady?" she questioned, smiling archly. 

"" But you," he whispered, his voice husky from the effort, " you 
are a princess." 

She looked up, smiling, into his eyes. " And you you are a prince 
among men," she said. 

" Then you will" he whispered, " you will " 

" The clock !" she cried, her hand on his arm, " the clock ! Now 
we will unmask." 

The sombre garb of the nun dropped away from her and she stood 
before him in gleaming white satin, a rich blush dyeing her cheeks, her 
beautiful head proudly erect. 

" Monsieur," she asked, " the awakening ? Are you sure it is all 
you pictured?" 

" Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle," he answered, " who can rightly 
picture the joys of Heaven or the beauties of an angel?" 

" Yet, Monsieur, you seemed wonderfully content with earthly 
joys, to stand afar off and gaze upon the charms of a shepherdess." 

" Until I heard her voice " 

" You liked her voice, Monsieur ?" 

" Wonderfully well, Mademoiselle, so long as it addressed M. le 
Comte de Soissons. Perhaps even better than the Count himself does 
now, judging by the unhappiness of his appearance," he said, looking 
across the dance to where the Count of Soissons stood opposite them 
with the smaller of the two shepherdesses, Mademoiselle de Monglat. 

" Is it not always so with men when we cease to be a mystery ?" 
she questioned. 

" Mademoiselle," he exclaimed, his tone all remonstrance, " do you 
judge all men so harshly ?" 

" Mademoiselle, her Majesty the Queen begins the dance." 

It was the Count of Soissons who stood bowing before them, his 
hand extended to the Princess Henriette Marie. 

Later in the dance they met again, the Count of Soissons with 
black brows drawn together over flashing eyes. 

" I bide my time, Monsieur," he threatened haughtily, his voice 
hoarse from passion. " Once away from the presence of her Majesty, 
and I will make you answer for your insolence." 

" We clasp hands in the dance, Monsieur," Stanley replied with a 
beaming smile. 

In the last figure of the dance he bowed before his partner. "Is 



18 The Love Affair of a Princess 

it the end?" he asked, speaking low as he raised his eyes to her 
appealingly. " Is there to be no to-morrow ?" 

" To-morrow in Heaven, Monsieur ?" she questioned lightly, but 
her voice was not very steady. " I had thought it was all one day/' 

" Without your presence, Mademoiselle, there could be neither joy 
nor sunlight in Heaven." 

"'Tis already daylight," she answered, pointing to a window that 
looked towards the east. 

" Will the sun shine " he asked timidly, and paused. Then he 

added, " Will it shine for me, Mademoiselle ?" 

She did not answer. 

" I suppose," he sighed, " I ask too much, a beggar longing for 
the reward of a king." 

" Do you long to be a king ?" she asked. 

"It rests with you, Mademoiselle. You can make me long to be 
a king or content to be a beggar." 

" The Queen gives the signal, the dance is ended," she said. 

" Ah, Mademoiselle, there is to be no sunlight ?" he asked, faltering, 
his voice husky. " No to-morrow for me ?" 

" To-morrow I go to Mere Magdelaine for her weekly instruction," 
she told him, her eyes downcast. "Afterwards I walk in the convent 
garden for solitary meditation." 

"'Tis already to-morrow, Mademoiselle," he said, pointing to the 
window she had indicated. " The day breaks and the sun shines 
for me, Mademoiselle. The sun shines for me." 

For an instant their hands met, fluttering. He bowed very low, 
and she, leaving him, passed out with her Majesty the Queen. 

"You shall hear from me to-morrow, Monsieur," said the Count 
of Soissons, his face black with passion, as Stanley passed him on his 
way to join his Grace of Colloden and the English Minister. 

" To-morrow cannot come too soon, my Lord," Stanley answered, 
smiling into his face. " To-morrow brings sunlight." 

" It brings you death," said the Count. 

" It brings me sunlight, my Lord, only sunlight." 

IV. 

ON the morning following the royal masque the fashion of Paris 
was like to talk its tongue out. Madame Eoyale, the Princess Hen- 
riette Marie, received her full share of comment for the mad way in 
which she had chosen to reward the gallantry of an untitled foreigner. 
A gracious acknowledgment and a generous reward of a brave deed 
was worthy of the daughter of the great Navarre, but to command the 
presence of an Englishman of humble station at a royal masque, even 
though he was introduced by the English Minister and enjoyed the 



The Love Affair of a Princess 19 

patronage of no less personage than M. le Due de Colloden, and to 
dance with him in the face of the men of fashion, the princes of the 
blood, of all France the dowagers held up their hands; the matrons 
shook their heads; the belles offered a timid defence, while the gentle- 
men admired her spirit or resented the condescension of the foreigner's 
manner and hinted at a reprimand to be sent by the King through the 
English Minister to the noble patron. 

It was agreed that the noble patron was a man of unsurpassed 
elegance both in manner and person. Her Majesty the Queen had not 
only received him graciously, but accepted his compliments and atten- 
tions with a pleasure which she had not made less conspicuous by 
granting him the honor of her hand in the dance. His patronage of 
his humble fellow-countrymen was named as an evidence of his gener- 
osity especially noticeable when one considered that in looks and 
address the untitled stranger was scarcely less pleasing than the noble 
patron indeed, there were some the least timid of the very young 
belles who gave a whispered preference for the latter, some even being 
bold enough to hint that could Monsieur le Gentleman change with 
Monsieur le Due the verdicts of the dowagers and the sensitive gentle- 
men might easily be reversed. 

So perhaps it was not altogether strange that the Englishman who 
caused all this gossip should find no less than three polite messengers 
from three different gentlemen awaiting his attention when he made 
his appearance that same morning to breakfast with his noble patron. 
It was M. le Due de Colloden himself who delivered the messages, 
carefully stating the name and station of each gentleman and the little 
matter in connection with which he demanded satisfaction. Stanley 
heard him through without comment, then, smiling gayly, he spoke to 
his serving-man: 

" Show them all up, Dick," he cried. " Since the gentlemen are 
so eager for satisfaction it would be most unkind to keep them longer 
waiting." 

"You are mad!" the Duke of Colloden exclaimed. "They are 
picked by Soissons the three best swordsmen in France. You shall 
not fight all three," he added positively. 

Stanley flushed slightly. " Shall not ?" he repeated questioningly, 
raising his eyebrows. Then he asked, still smiling, " Jack, do you 
wish to be my fourth?" 

As the door opened he turned and looked beamingly into the faces 
of the three Frenchmen. 

" Gentlemen," he said, returning their courteous salutations, " you 
honor me. I am not accustomed to such great compliments three 
of them together. I accept the invitations of your friends and will 
meet them in any order which they themselves may decide, to-day at 



20 The Love Affair of a Princess 

sunset, in the forest just without the walls of the convent of Mere 
Magdelaine." 

" All of them, Monsieur ?" the friend of Captain de Berensac, the 
best swordsman in France, questioned with a chill sneer. " M. le Capi- 
taine de Berensac claims the honor of the first encounter: will you 
meet the friends of these two gentlemen to-day, Monsieur ?" 

" All of them, Monsieur," Stanley replied gayly. " If I should 
defer our meeting, or selecting one of your invitations refuse the 
others, I fear your friends would doubt my appreciation of their 
courtesies. I accept them all, gentlemen the invitations you bring 
from each of your three friends. I shall do myself the honor to fight 
them all in the forest without the convent wall at the hour named. 
But" his smile faded, his manner became stern, menacing " there is 
one condition: that the Count of Soissons stand with each and every 
man as his second. There can be no question of station the Duke of 
Colloden stands with me. My friend," he said, addressing his Grace of 
Colloden, and the smile returned to his face, " I very much desire to 
teach the Count of Soissons an Englishman's use of a sword, but since 
he will not learn by practice I must teach him by example. I will 
give him his first three lessons to-day at sunset." Turning again to 
the three messengers, "Gentlemen, his Grace the Duke of Colloden 
will speak further with you." 

With a low bow to the three Frenchmen, a smile that was half a 
dare for Colloden, he left the room, and they heard him quickly 
descend the stairs and pass into the streets. Two hours later, in 
obedience to his command, Eichard Graham, his devoted serving-man, 
left him walking in the forest which surrounds the Carmelite Convent, 
in which dwelt Mere Magdelaine. Once alone, he made straight for 
the convent. Circling about until he reached the most retired part of 
its grounds, he climbed a tree overlooking and in easy reach of the 
wall. Here, completely hidden by foliage, he sat looking down into 
the quiet convent garden, waiting. Two hours passed, three ah, the 
wicket leading into the nearer convent grounds opened. One figure, 
two a young girl and a stately nun entered. They halted just 
within the gate. A few words were exchanged, the nun caressed her, 
gave her her blessing, then, returning, passed out and, closing the 
wicket, left her alone. She was coming towards him walking slowly, 
her eyes downcast. Slowly she moved through the garden, passing 
between the flowers " Herself the fairest flower" of them all, he 
thought. She reached the wall at the extremity away from the build- 
ings and paused as though listening. He drew in his breath was she 
listening for him? She was returning, moving towards the wicket, 
but not so contentedly, he fancied, and he smiled when she paused to 
pluck a second rose, looking about her, listening. Ah ! she would not 



The Love Affair of a Princess 21 

go so far as the wicket, but had turned and was coming back to the 
wall. She was walking directly towards him now, as though drawn. 
He could see her face, every feature her smiling lips, the sunlight 
glinting her hair, kissing the pink of her cheeks. 

" She is a beautiful Princess," he murmured, as though thinking 
alound, " and would make a noble Queen. Has she the heart of a true 
woman? Would she make a good wife for me?" and the longing in 
his tone was almost pathetic. 

As she neared him he stepped upon the top of the wall, then 
springing lightly down stood at her side. 

" Mademoiselle," he said, his voice trembling, abashed at her pres- 
ence, " the rose I watched you pluck it. Is it for me ?" 

In an instant she was all haughtiness. 

" You looked over the walls of the convent, spying upon the soli- 
tary meditations of the Princess Koyale of France?" she demanded. 

He made no reply. He could not; he was frozen by the anger 
in her tone, overcome by the splendor of her beauty. 

" Why did you climb these walls and watch me in my meditations ?" 

" Mademoiselle," he replied with grave dignity, " in answer to my 
earnest entreaty you consented for me to come." 

" I consented for you to come," she said, her face softening almost 
to a smile, "but not to stop to watch." 

" I stopped only because at first I feared to come," he told her, 
speaking timidly, uncertain of her humor. 

"Yet you came?" 

" When I could no longer stay away, Mademoiselle." 

" Ah, so you can turn a pretty compliment ! I had heard to the 
contrary of your countrymen. Do all Englishmen flatter ladies, Mon- 
sieur?" 

" We sometimes tell them that which is in our heart, Mademoiselle, 
when we have the courage." 

" All of you ?" she asked. " And your Prince, is he a maker of 
pretty speeches?" 

" My Prince !" he exclaimed, as though not fully understanding 
her question. 

"Yes, the Prince of Wales. Does he make pretty speeches? I 
wish to learn about him." 

" You wish me to talk to you of the Prince of Wales ?" he ques- 
tioned, surprised, perhaps piqued. 

"Am I not a princess?" she asked, a shadow of her first haughti- 
ness appearing. 

" I had thought you were a woman," Stanley replied, speaking 
below his breath. 

She did not hear him, but went on: "I have heard wonderful 



22 The Love Affair of a Princess 

things of him of his courage, his fine manner, and of his handsome 
person." She had stopped at a rustic chair and sat plucking to pieces, 
petal by petal, the rose for which he had begged. " You have been at 
court with M. le Due de Colloden. Have you not seen Monsieur le 
Prince ?" 

" Yes, Mademoiselle, many times." 

" And is he so wonderfully handsome ?" she asked, raising her eyes 
to Stanley's, her face all questioning. 

" He is a prince," he answered, his manner without life, as though 
he had lost all interest. 

" What of that ?" she questioned, regarding him sharply. 

"Are not kings and princes always handsome?" he answered, 
meeting her gaze calmly. 

" Ah !" she ejaculated, " you say that to me." 

"Why not? Are you not a princess and know that you are beau- 
tiful?" 

"And you," she rejoined, as though defending herself against an 
accusation, "has the world never told you that you were handsome?" 

He looked at her until her eyes dropped. Then he smiled and 
moved a step nearer. " No, my world has never told me," he said. 

" Your world where is your world ?" she asked, her eyes downcast, 
her hands busy in their destruction of the rose. 

He did not answer for an instant, but stood gazing at her, blind 
and deaf to all else, only her. She gave no sign. " My world ?" he 
said at length, speaking timidly. Then he paused, resting his hand on 
the rail of her seat. 

As her fingers touched the one remaining petal of the rose he ex- 
tended his hand appealingly towards her. " Give it me," he entreated. 
"It is the last," he said, his whole body shaken by emotion as his 
fingers closed gently about hers. " Give it me," he whispered. 

"It is for the Prince of Wales," she objected weakly. They were 
both trembling now, but she did not turn from him. 

" He has so much," he pleaded, and his arm, leaving the rail, 
encircled her waist, "I so little." 

" He is a prince," she told him coldly, drawing away, " and should 
have everything. He shall have the last petal of my rose." Daintily 
plucking it from the stem she turned her face to the north, and lifting 
it to her lips blew it towards England. 

After a short silence she again turned towards him, though she 
did not lift her eyes to his. " They say that he will have the Spanish 
Princess," she remarked questioningly. 

Apparently he did not hear. He stood gazing over the forest 
towards the setting sun. She returned again to the attack. 



The Love Affair of a Princess 23 

" Perhaps you envy Monsieur le Prince the promise of so beautiful 
a princess/' she said, watching him from under her drooping lids. 

" No/' he answered calmly, " I want a woman." 

" Is a princess not a woman ?" she questioned, surprised. 

"Not the kind that a man longs for, that his heart craves," he 
told her. 

" Ah !" she exclaimed, indignant. " Then there is a difference. 
Will you explain ? A princess is " 

"A princess, Mademoiselle," he answered, speaking very gently 
and calmly, " is always beautiful, so she must always be worshipped ; 
she is always royal, and must always be obeyed ; she is always tenderly 
nurtured, so must always have even her least desire; she has always 
been flattered, so she can never know nor inspire true affection; she 
can be a rod, but never a staff; a counsellor, but never a solace; a 
queen, but never a wife." 

It was very still. The fragrance of the garden came to them, 
and from the forest the murmur of the wind-moved leaves. She drew 
a deep breath, it seemed almost a sob. 

" A woman ?" she asked, her voice a little unsteady. " The woman 
your heart longs for ?" 

He left the place to which- he had been driven by her coldness and 
returned to the side of her chair. 

" Ah, Mademoiselle, a woman the woman which every true man in 
his heart longs for," he said huskily, " is beautiful, because she is 
tender; adorable, because she loves. She is a man's comfort and 
staff, strengthening him when he is weakest, softening him when he is 
harsh; she walks with him in success, draws closer in adversity; she 
is his world, the arbiter of his life, his good angel, his wife." 

She was half turned away from him, her lovely head bent very low. 
He laid his hand on the rail of her seat. 

" I know you are such a woman," he said, faltering. " Could you 
would you be such a wife ?" 

After a pause neither thought of time he felt her fingers tremu- 
lously seek his own. At last she raised her eyes bravely to his. 

" If you were my husband," she said. 

" My angel !" he whispered. " My angel !" She pressed closer to 
his side, startled. 

It was a shrill whistle from the forest just beyond the convent 
wall. The third time it was repeated he sighed. 

" It is my signal," he told her. " I must be in the forest at 
sunset." 

"But you will not go until I quit the convent?" she asked him, 
puzzled, distressed. 

" If I fail the meeting, I shall be branded as a coward." 



24 The Love Affair of a Princess 

She uttered a quick cry and pressed her hand to her breast. " You 
are to fight/' she said. " Who ?" 

" Friends of the Count of Soissons," he told her, speaking very 
gently, and he gave her their names. 

" Devil I" she said fiercely, the blood surging up into her pale 
cheeks. " It is his revenge for last night. So it is with every man 

in France ! I may not even give my hand in a dance ! You must " 

Her voice trailed off into a moan. She was leaning heavily on him 
now, her face very white. 

" You do not know I" she cried wildly. " They are the best swords- 
men in France. They will kill you." 

He looked into her eyes, smiling, making light of her fears. " I 
am a good swordsman," he told her, " and Colloden knows how to 
place his man." 

" I will pray for you and they must fail," she said vehemently, 
reassured by his manner. 

He placed his hand over the fingers she had laid on his arm and 
drew her nearer to his side. 

" They will fail," he assured her. 

" Even then you must go in hiding, perhaps flee." 

" That could make no difference," he said. " In any event, I leave 
Paris to-night. All is arranged." 

" A-h ?" she questioned, and she drew her hand from his arm and 
went back to her garden chair. " In any event you quit Paris ?" 

" Yes, Mademoiselle to-night," he answered bitterly, his voice 
faltering. In his heart it was as though she had struck him a deadly 
blow, and his brain was groping blindly for a reason. He had been 
so sure of her love her steadfastness. 

"You go alone?" she asked. There was a suspicion of tears in 
her voice. Her face was turned away from him and her fingers were 
very busy with a ribbon at her belt. 

He was on his knees at her side : " Ah, Mademoiselle, I must go 
alone ! What is the devotion, the heart, the life of a poor English 
gentleman to you? You are a princess." 

" I am a woman," she said, and her hand was not drawn away. 

V. 

" MY greetings, gentlemen, my Lord of Soissons !" Stanley ex- 
claimed as he walked out from among the trees nearest the convent. 
His tone was as light, his smile as gay, as when he received the three 
challenge-bearers earlier in the day. "I deplore that I am the last 
to arrive on the field; I would not have missed one moment of your 
company." 

"You are in full time, Monsieur," Soissons answered, graciously 



The Love Affair of a Princess 25 

returning his salutation. " The sunlight on the tree-tops proves that 
it is not yet sunset. It still lacks several minutes of the appointed 
time." 

" You are kind, my Lord," Stanley replied ; then, turning to the 
Duke of Colloden, he inquired, " Your Grace has arranged all the 
details?" 

Colloden answered in the affirmative, but his face was troubled, 
almost unhappy, and his tone was far from cheerful. 

" The gentlemen have decided in what order they will fight ?" 
Stanley further inquired. 

Colloden turned on him sharply. " You must stop this mad folly," 
he said, speaking vehemently, though in such a guarded tone that 
no one else could hear or understand. " It shall go no further. I 
will throw the whole matter in Soissons' teeth and fight him here my- 
self until one of us falls on the field. These three men are the best 
swordsmen in France. It is madness. It is murder. Think of your 
father. You shall not fight." 

As Stanley listened the smile faded from his lips. He permitted 
Colloden to continue uninterrupted, and when he stopped speaking he 
looked him over coldly, critically, allowing his eyes to travel slowly 
from his head to his heels, back to his head again. 

" That was a detail settled this morning," was his only reply, and 
he spoke with a quiet emphasis that was final. 

He turned towards the field and stood gazing through a break in 
the forest at the setting sun. His face was upturned a little and 
his eyes wide opened and pensive. De Conzonne, the eldest of the 
three challengers, spoke to Captain de Berensac. " He seems very 
young, hardly more than a boy. Ventre Dieu ! he is handsome enough 
to be the Prince himself. It is no wonder that Madame Royale lost her 
head. Doubtless he is thinking of her now and " 

De Berensac interrupted him. " Monsieur," he cried, " you are 
bidding the sun a last good-by?" 

" No, Captain, only praying that it might quickly disappear," 
Stanley answered; then with a last glance towards the west he added, 
" The sun is gone, gentlemen, the hour has arrived. You honor me 
first, Captain?" he asked, and the sunlight that had faded from the 
sky seemed to radiate from his face, so happy was his smile and his 
brilliant, laughing eyes. 

" No, Monsieur," de Berensac answered, " I could not deprive Mon- 
sieur de Conzonne and M. le Capitaine Lonjone the privilege of cross- 
ing swords with you. I come last, Monsieur." 

"You are considerate, Captain," Stanley answered, and obeying 
the summons of the Duke of Colloden he went forward to take his 
place. 



26 The Love Affair of a Princess 

De Conzonne was the first. His attack was without feint or 
trickery, and Stanley, accepting his lead, met him on his own ground. 
De Berensac swore that the Englishman fenced like a stable boy, and 
that de Conzonne sought to return his courtesy in giving him first 
place by not spitting the clown in the first onslaught. The play of the 
Frenchman's sword became more rapid. Stanley was hard pressed, 
but he did not give back. De Conzonne's point passed through a fold 
of his shirt. De Berensac laughed, the Count of Soissons held his 
breath, while his Grace of Colloden turned a shade paler and ground 
his teeth. Then the Frenchman came at him more fiercely with a 
thrust in low tierce. Stanley leaped beyond his measure and with a 
return play that was like a flash of light ran his blade deep into de 
Conzonne's side. 

" My Lord," he said, speaking courteously to Soissons as de Con- 
zonne was being borne to one side, "my Lord, that is my first lesson 
to you of an Englishman's use of a sword. I must apologize to your 
Lordship for the tediousness of it, and I do assure you that in the 
next two lessons I shall be quicker and more to the point." 

Soissons' face flushed and he replied haughtily, " You are con- 
fident, Monsieur. My friends stand ready for you to prove your boast- 
ings." He turned to Colloden. "Monsieur le Due," he said, "time 
presses, the light grows dim." 

Stanley laughed as he stepped to his place. " Captain Lonjone," 
he cried, "the lace at your throat lies all on the right side. Put it 
straight, I beg you more over your heart. While I am charmed to 
give the Count of Soissons lessons in sword-play, I have no desire 
to kill all his friends." 

" Not all, Monsieur," de Berensac answered. " Though chance 
should make you successful in your second try as in your first, I am 
still here." 

" I had not forgotten you, Captain," Stanley replied. " Such an 
oversight were not possible." 

"You are elated, Monsieur," de Berensac sneered. 

Captain Lonjone's attack was of a ferocious intensity that made 
the Englishmen, serving-men of his Grace of Colloden, unaccustomed 
to such methods, gasp with horror. He lunged; Stanley lifted his 
arm; the Frenchman's sword rang clanking on the ground, Stanley's 
point over his heart. For a moment they stood thus, motionless. With 
a turn of the wrist Stanley's sword came back to his side. He stepped 
forward, picked up the Frenchman's blade and returned it to him. 

"It was your lace again, Captain Lonjone," he said. "It per- 
sisted in exposing your heart." He faced de Berensac. "You are 
right, Captain, I am elated to have so famous a swordsman assist in 



The Love Affair of a Princess 27 

my third lesson to my Lord of Soissons. Is it time to begin, my 
Lord?" he asked of Soissons. 

The Duke of Colloden objected, breathing space must be given. 
The Count of Soissons gave his consent silently, but Stanley would 
have none of it. He laughed Colloden to scorn and haughtily ordered 
de Berensac to make ready. 

Over the field there settled the stillness of death. For a short 
moment it was absolute, then broken only by the sharp clanking of 
two swords, the quick stamp of feet. The Count of Soissons was 
almost as pale as his Grace of Colloden. The wounded man propped 
in the arms of the surgeon looked on, the serving-men pressed as 
close as they dared. It was a question of life and death, and those 
looking on held their breath. 

Captain de Berensac began carefully,- but fiercely ; tried first one 
attack, then another beats, flanconades, feints, and lunges. Stan- 
ley was as cool and as silent. He held de Berensac in check, even 
gave him much to do to defend himself. They were sweating freely, 
their faces hot. De Berensac made a circular parry; Stanley straight- 
ened, withdrew his sword, dripping blood; de Berensac sank on the 
ground, fainting. 

"Your third lesson, my Lord," Stanley said, bowing to Soissons. 
" Your friends are most kind to suffer willingly so much pain for your 
edification." 

Soissons' face reddened at the taunt, but when he answered there 
was only dignity, neither haughtiness nor resentment in his tone. 
" Monsieur," he said, " I once doubted your courage, jeered you for 
lack of station " 

" The answers to your jeers, your doubts, are here, my Lord 
here on this field. Since I quit Paris at once, I leave them with your 
Lordship," Stanley replied, and the haughtiness which had deserted 
the manner of the Count of Soissons appeared multiplied four-fold 
in his own. He turned to Colloden. 

" Does your Grace go with me or return to Paris ?" he demanded. 

" I must first return and report to the Minister of his Majesty 
King James. Then I will overtake you and see you safely across the 
borders of France," the Duke of Colloden answered, and there passed 
between them a quick glance which the Count of Soissons did not 
detect, though he heard and understood the meaning of their words. 

As Stanley entered the forest alone with Richard Graham, his 
serving-man, he asked: 

"You left the horses at the appointed place, Dick? How many?" 

"Three," Graham answered. 

As the Count of Soissons and his suite rode into the court-yard 
of his palace a messenger followed, breathlessly. He gave a folded 
paper to Soissons. It was from Mere Magdelaine. 



28 The Love Affair of a Princess 

VL 

THE three horses were going well, two in front, one in the rear. 
Eichard Graham was the first to detect the sound of pursuit. He 
listened, made ready with his weapon, then warned the two in the lead. 

" Since they are so near we will go more gently. It will be less 
fatiguing for Mademoiselle," Stanley said, and drawing up his own 
horse he leaned forward and placed his hand restrainingly on the 
bridle of the one galloping at his side. 

" It has been a hard ride. Are you very tired ?" he asked tenderly 
as, bending low in his saddle, he sought to see more plainly the fair 
face hidden by the broad, plume-laden hat. 

She turned towards him smiling she was wonderfully beautiful, 
her eyes, so large and deep at all times, seemed fathomless in the 
moonlight. She was about to reply when Graham's voice interrupted. 

" It is a troop of horse and they are coming at a mad pace/' 
he called excitedly, urging his animal nearer. " There may be some 
mistake. It will be safer if you move aside stop in the forest with 
the lady." 

" 'Tis Jack, Dick," Stanley assured his serving-man. " You for- 
get; he quits France as the Duke of Colloden he must travel in state. 
When did you ever know him to draw rein?" 

He turned back to the girl at his side. She was looking up at 
him, her lips smiling. He placed his hand over the slender fingers 
resting on her saddle and bent towards her. Then he straightened 
and called back over his shoulder, 

" Stop behind, Dick, and warn them, against they run us down in 
their mad haste." 

Again he was bending over her, very close now. " Are you sorry ?" 
he whispered, and the hand that clasped her fingers against the saddle 
trembled. 

" If your heart fails you, if you distrust me the least, it is it 
is not yet too late," he went on, struggling desperately to steady his 
voice. "We can turn aside into the forest, and when they have 
passed I I will take you back to the convent. None need ever 
know. Will you will you go ?" 

" If I do, will you remain in France ?" 

He shook his head. " No, I must " He was doing his best 

to speak firmly, yet something seemed rising in his throat, choking 
him. " I must leave France at once." 

He felt her fingers turn and clasp his own. She looked up into 
his eyes, smiling brilliantly. " Then we will go to England," she said. 

" Ah, my angel !" he whispered. " My angel ! I did not know 
there was such goodness on earth." 



The Love Affair of a Princess 29 

"Because you did not know the true depths of the heart of a 
woman of a princess " 

There was a wild cry from Graham, a thunder of hoof-beats. 
Stanley had but bare time to wheel his horse when the pursuers were 
upon him. 

" .For the daughter of Navarre !" they cried. " Down with the 
felon ! Kill the English felon 1" 

Stanley rose in his stirrups. The first man fell from his saddle 
under the horse's feet and lay there. For a moment the onslaught 
was checked. He got the horse of the Princess more directly behind 
his own. 

"Kill the felon! Kill the English felon! For the daughter of 
Navarre!" they shouted hoarsely, and they closed in on him, trying 
to pass behind him to reach the Princess. 

Now this side, now that, his horse was wheeled, his sword always 
against those who sought to pass him or bear him flown. Once his 
point passed through a gentleman's waistcoat and came out drip- 
ping red. 

" My Lord of Nevers," he cried, " I should regret that blow had 
you come in nobler company." 

" Leave your horses and attack him on foot ! Kill the English 
scoundrel !" It was the Count of Soissons' voice. 

" Ha, ha !" Stanley laughed. " So, my noble coward, you profit 
by your lessons of this afternoon three lessons in one afternoon! 
My Lord of Soissons, you make a most perfect second you have no 
desire to do the fighting, only to direct I" 

His keen defence was a marvel of skill; he cleared the space in 
front of him, forcing the horsemen back. It availed him but a moment. 
They returned, horsemen and those who, following Soissons' direc- 
tions, left their horses in the rear. They charged him together, rain- 
ing blows at both man and horse. The poor beast went down, wounded 
to death. 

There was a piercing shriek. Princess Henriette Marie leaped 
from her horse and ran wildly towards the spot where she had seen 
him disappear. 

A sharp cry his cry warned her back. He was there she saw 
his uncovered head, his face white in the moonlight. Unhorsed, his 
coat torn and blood-stained, he fought. They seemed twenty a hun- 
dred swarming to bear him down. 

One two of them were down. He was beating them off. Ah 
she clinched her hands and prayed : " Holy Mother !" Another was 
down, a red stain on his shoulder. Again ah he was down a swarm 
of devils rushing towards him. 

" Messieurs, you dare draw sword against the sister of the King 



30 The Love Affair of a Princess 

of France?" The Princess stood facing them, her arms outstretched, 
defending the prostrate Englishman against their blows with her own 
body. 

They fell back, dumb, and, still dumb, stopped and stared at her. 
Her hat gone, her hair thrown away from her upturned face, she looked 
a statue of passionate defiance. Gazing at her they remembered their 
great King. There were some among them who had seen him in that 
same attitude and they understood its import. One by one their swords 
slipped back into their scabbards. 

" Mademoiselle la Princess/' it was de Grammont's voice and he 
stepped out from among the disordered group, bowing humbly before 
her, "we come as " 

Like a thunderbolt a body of horsemen charged down upon them. 
" St. George and England ! St. George and England I" they shouted, 
and they smote right and left. As dry leaves in the swirl of a whirl- 
wind those about Stanley and the Princess went down, and the new 
combatants, forming a ring about them, held their ground. 

" Charlie/' the Duke of Colloden demanded of Stanley, lifting and 
supporting him as he found him staggering to his feet, " what is the 
meaning of this madness ?" 

"Was it madness, Jack?" he answered, and his voice had the tone 
of one who speaks of the sweetest thing in life. " Then it was a most 
heavenly madness, and I would it could have lasted al ways." 

" Count of Grammont, by what right do you pursue and attack to 
death an English gentleman, a loyal subject of his Majesty King 
James?" the English Minister demanded of the only Frenchman who 
had not retreated to a distance beyond his recognition. 

" No, my friend," Stanley cried, and though he staggered from 
loss of blood and weakness, he laughed as gayly as he had done that 
morning when replying to the sneering questions of the messenger of 
de Berensac, " you make a mistake ! It is his nobleness, the gallant 
Count of Soissons, who brings a troop of horse against an English 
gentleman and his one serving-man. He has a bravery which we 
English do not understand. When he attacks a gentleman there is 
but one sword between them, and he is careful to have that sword." 

" Monsieur," Soissons exclaimed, leaving the group of horsemen 
who had been driven back by the onslaught of the English and riding 
towards the Minister, " for the once your scoundrelly fellow-country- 
man speaks the truth. With all of my own followers who could be 
gathered so quickly, and some few of my friends, at the earnest solici- 
tations of Mere Magdelaine I pursued this fellow to overtake and 
bring back that lady," here he pointed to where the Princess Koyale 
stood to one side the circle formed by the English horsemen and some- 
what behind Stanley and the Duke of Colloden, "who is no less a 



The Love Affair of a Princess 31 

person than her Koyal Highness, Princess Henriette Marie. If you 
champion the misdeeds of this fellow, Monsieur," he went on, speak- 
ing to Lord Holland, " refuse to give him willingly to the laws of 
France for just punishment, it is a cause for war. He invaded the 
holy precincts of the Carmelite Convent, seized the person of the 
Princess Eoyale, the young sister of his Most Christian Majesty, Louis, 
King of France, and stole her away by force " 

" I was not forced away." It was the Princess Eoyale herself. 
" Monsieur Holland/' she continued, coming forward, and every man 
present was off his horse, his hat in his hand, "by my own free will 
I left the convent, stole secretly from the care of Mere Magdelaine, 
with the hope of quitting France undetected. Monsieur, since this 
gentleman," she made a slight movement indicating Stanley, and all 
saw that her eyes drooped and that the color mounted higher on her 
cheeks, " since this gentleman told me of his love, I " 

" Mademoiselle, for the sake of your good name I beg, implore, 
you to desist," Soissons exclaimed, interrupting her. " That scoun- 
drel," he continued, lifting his hand menacingly towards Stanley, 
" has not even the humble station he claims. He is a most filthy felon, 
the son of a peasant, born in a stable, a most outrageous lackey, and 
coward " 

" Coward !" Princess Henriette exclaimed, and there was unfathom- 
able scorn in her tone. " Even though what you say of his station be 
true, M. le Comte de Soissons, though I do not believe one word you 
speak, he is neither a coward nor a lackey. Look at the men about 
you, Monsieur, those who groan and the two you ordered removed, 
who never will rise again. Is it the work of a coward, a lackey ? Then 
I wish there was even one gentleman in France who could do half so 
well. Who was it who at sunset to-day, in the forest, hard by the 
convent wall, wounded two of your friends and spared the life of 
another all of them rated the best swordsmen in France? Had that 
gentleman the heart of a coward ? Did he wield the sword of a lackey ? 
Then I would but half the princes of the blood royal were such 
cowards, and took lessons at arms of lackeys. Though I was too young 
to receive the teachings of my father, Monsieur, I have yet enough of 
his blood in my veins to make me know that high rank does not always 
breed the true nobleman, nor does humble birth make a craven. Mon- 
sieur Holland," turning back towards the English Minister, "when 
this gentleman saved me from hurt, perhaps from death, caught and 
subdued my frightened horse when my attendants dared not approach, 
yesterday, it seems so long ago, I gave him my token, commanded 
his presence at the royal masque. He came, Monsieur, and I gave him 
my hand in the dance it was my humor so to reward his bravery. 
When the dance was ended he begged to see me again. I bade him 



32 The Love Affair of a Princess 

come to the convent. He was there, Monsieur." She looked again 
towards Stanley, and though the color shone warm in her cheeks her 
eyes did not droop. 

" He told me of his love, and I was all too willing a listener. 
He warned me, told me of his poverty, his humble station, reminded 
me of my rank. I was persistent, determined to follow him to Eng- 
land, for in all my life I have never met so perfect a gentleman. 
So, Monsieur Holland, if a law has been broken, I am the offender. 
That I gave my heart to this gentleman is no fault of his. When I 
first persisted in quitting France in his company he refused to obey 
my pleadings, at last consented most unwillingly. Again on the way 
he gave me my choice begged me to stop he would return me to 
the convent and none need ever know. We were then on this road, 
Monsieur, there where you stand. He had sent his serving-man back 
to check the mad riding of M. le Comte de Soissons' ruffians, fancy- 
ing them the suit of his noble patron, who " 

" Noble patron !" Soissons cried with a laugh of contempt, and 
he would have spoken further but the Count of Grammont whispered 
to him warningly. Then, stepping forward, he, de Grammont, bowed 
as a courtier in deference to the Princess, saying: 

" Madame, you know me as your humble servant, a loyal subject of 
your brother, King Louis. May I speak, Madame?" 

"If it is for yourself, Monsieur," the Princess consented, some- 
what reluctantly. "Of late I have tired of your continued praises of 
M. le Comte de Soissons, and now will have no more of it." 

" I speak for myself, Madame, though to assure you of the truth 
of the assertion made by M. le Comte de Soissons concerning the fel- 
low calling himself Thomas Stanley. I do assure you of his utter 
unworthiness, Madame, and you also, Monsieur, feeling sure you have 
been most horribly deceived. The two men who stand before you, 
claiming the rank of an English gentleman and a peer of King James's 
realm, are English adventurers, felons. Less than a week ago they 
entered Paris, wearing perukes and followed by one serving-man be- 
tween them. Taking lodgings at a certain tap-room in an humble 
quarter of the town, they gave their names as John Brown and Tom 
Smith. I have positive proof, Monsieur, that they fled from England 
because of their connection with a plot against the life of his Grace 
the noble Due de Buckingham. Of such low quality are they, Madame, 
so steeped in villainy, that the first day after their landing in France 
they were detected in the act of stealing a sheep. I have " 

" All of this, Monsieur," Princess Henriette exclaimed in fine scorn, 
"you doubtless learned from M. le Comte de Soissons!" 

"No, Madame, in this matter I acted for myself. 'Twas I who 
told Soissons when he came begging my assistance in pursuing and 



The Love Affair of a Princess 33 

returning you to the care of Mere Magdelaine. I discovered their 
change of name, that they were imposters, the day before the masque, 
but knowing the surest way to cure a woman of a whim is to give her 
her way, without the knowledge of M. le donate de Soissons I secured 
their entrance." 

" And permitted me to dance with an English adventurer ! You 
are a most loyal subject to the King of France, Monsieur de Gram- 
mont, to allow his sister in the company of a low-born felon. Mon- 
sieur," she cried, turning quickly towards Stanley, "you hear his 
accusation. Does he speak the truth ?" 

" Since you doubt sufficient to ask, is it worth while for me to 
deny?" Stanley answered her. He had grown very white and his face 
twitched painfully. 

For a moment they stood silently gazing into each other's eyes, 
then Princess Henriette spoke and her tone was very gentle. 

"It was not that I doubted, for only from your own lips would I 
believe aught that was not praise, but because of that trust, Monsieur, 
I would not have you stand silent before the least of accusations." 

"I have told you only that which is true, Mademoiselle," he 
answered, and kneeling he pressed her fingers to his lips. "I am an 
English gentleman, naught below that station. I left England only 
because of my own pleasure and shall return when I so will, unless" 
he glanced over his shoulder towards Soissons, smiling jauntily 
" my Lord of Soissons desires my company in France." 

" I will see to it that you are sufficiently punished," Soissons replied 
haughtily. Then he turned again to the English Minister. " Mon- 
sieur, the Princess Koyale suffers from fatigue and must be conducted 
to a place of shelter without further delay. I demand that Englishman 
as my prisoner, to be delivered and punished according to the laws of 
France." 

Lord Holland was a man of quiet bearing, weighing well each 
word before it passed his lips. He answered the Count of Sois- 
sons : " Monsieur, it shall be my pleasure to return her Highness to 
Mere Magdelaine under the protection of you and your companions, 
all loyal subjects of his Majesty King Louis. As for the English 
gentleman, Thomas Stanley, Monsieur le Comte, he is a loyal subject 
of my master, King James of England, and entitled to my protection. 
He shall return to Paris in my charge, to be produced at any hour 
set by his Majesty King Louis of France or his Ministers. As for 
your accusations against this gentleman, an exalted peer of King 
James's realm," with a profound bow to his Grace of Colloden, "that 
also you must prove." 

He turned to the Princess Henriette, making a courtly bow. 
" Madame, will your Highness be pleased to return ?" 

VOL. LXXIV. 2 



34 The Love Affair of a Princess 

VII. 

"'Tis his Majesty's wish, ma belle Princess." 
"Yes, his Majesty's wish!" the Princess Henriette Marie cried, 
indignantly scornful. There were tears on her lashes which threat- 
ened to be quickly dried by the angry flashes of her eyes. " For two 
weeks I have implored speech with his Majesty, if only one word. I 
was sternly refused. My mother as sternly declined to see me. Yet 
you tell me that they desire my presence immediately, dressed as 
becomes the daughter of Navarre. I will not stir one step until I am 
told why I am ordered to lay aside this sombre dress. They may pre- 
vent my entering a convent, taking sacred orders, but they cannot 
force me to take part in their worldly amusements, to laugh and be 
gay. And I shall never marry." 

" Madame, his Majesty's orders are most positive," Mademoiselle 
de Monglat persisted. 

" Well, why ? Tell me why his Majesty commands my presence in 
the apartment of my mother and in a gay robe?" the Princess de- 
manded. " Is it a suitor for my hand, my Cousin Soissons ?" 
" No, Madame," Mademoiselle de Monglat answered. 
" A foreign suitor ?' 
" No, Madame, not a suitor." 

" Then why ? I order you to tell me why the King of France com- 
mands my presence in the apartment of the Queen Mother." 

" I do not know, Madame," the governess replied, but her eyes did 
not meet those of the Princess. " It is the wish of his Majesty, and 
that is sufficient." 

" It is not sufficient," the Princess cried passionately. " You do 
know and you shall tell me." She seized Mademoiselle de Monglat by 
the shoulders, gave her a sound shaking, then released her with a shove 
that sent her reeling against the wall. 

" Madame Eoyale !" Mademoiselle de Monglat's voice was a wail 
of horrified amazement. 

" Yes, I am Madame Eoyale, the Princess Eoyale of France, the 
daughter of Navarre, and I will not be defied by my servants, even if 
they obey King Louis himself," the Princess told her. "You make 
declarations of your profound love, swear to your eternal faithfulness 
yes, you! you and each and every member of my suit. Yet the 
token I sent secretly to Monsieur Stanley, the disguise I bade him 
wear to the masque, was reported to Monsieur le Comte de Soissons, 
was known by every man at court." She walked the full length of the 
room, then returning, stopped again before her governess. "If I 
knew the traitors in my service who reported my actions to Soissons 
I would punish them even had I to do it with my own hands. I tell 
you, Mamanga, I will not have traitors in my household. I am no 



The Love Affair of a Princess 85 

longer a child, and I will not be defied, even by you." She was silent 
a moment, thinking, and when she spoke again, though her voice no 
longer showed passion, it had not become one whit less decisive. 
" Why does the King of France command my presence in the apartment 
of the Queen Mother?" she demanded. 

" To give private audience to his Eoyal Highness Monsieur le 
Prince de Wales," Mademoiselle de Monglat answered, completely sub- 
dued. 

"Monsieur le Prince de Wales!" the Princess Henriette Marie 
exclaimed, amazed. 

"Yes, Madame." 

" But why should I see Monsieur le Prince ?" 

"His Majesty wishes it ma belle Princess." Mademoiselle de 
Monglat added the term of endearment timidly. 

" His Majesty wishes it !" the Princess cried, again showing signs 
of indignation. " Yet for two whole weeks I besought his Majesty, 
went down on my knees, begging one word with Monsieur Stanley, 
the privilege of sending him a letter, the slightest token. Now here 
is a man his Majesty tells me I must see. Do you know the difference, 
Mamanga? the reason why, forbidden to think of one, I am forced 
to see the other, though they are both Englishmen?" 

" One is the Prince of Wales," Mademoiselle de Monglat answered, 
" your equal in rank and " 

" Yes, rank !" the Princess interrupted bitterly. " That is it 
rank! This one is the Prince of Wales, and the King of France com- 
mands me to give him audience; the other, a gentleman of courage, 
of heart, and as far superior to " 

" Fie, fie, Madame !" Mademoiselle de Monglat exclaimed. " You 
have never seen his Koyal Highness, you do not know " 

" Not know ! It is true I have never seen his Eoyal Highness, but 
I know other princes: my Cousin Soissons, for instance, a prince 
of the blood royal, the flower of the house of Conde bah !" 

Crossing the room, she stood looking down into the palace garden, 
tapping the window-frame impatiently with her fingers. After a 
moment's silence she asked, 

" Monsieur le Prince is betrothed to Mademoiselle Marie Anne, 
the Infanta of Spain?" 

" Yes, ma belle Princess," Mademoiselle de Monglat replied, re- 
joiced that her unruly pupil showed signs of returning good-humor. 
" They only await the sanction of his Holiness, all else is arranged " 

" Arranged !" the Princess exclaimed, her anger flaring up again. 
" So it always is ! Always arranged ! Because one is a princess they 
must needs have no heart, they may not choose for themselves, but 
have it always arranged! Oh Mamanga," she cried, her voice broken, 



36 The Love Affair of a Princess 

her eyes filled with tears, " it may not be so hard when one does 
not know, does not care, but when one loves to allow another to 
press his kisses on your lips, hold you close in his arms. Oh Mamanga, 
Mamanga how is it possible?" 

" Ah, ma petite, ma belle petite," Mademoiselle Monglat cried, em- 
bracing her tenderly, "why do you grieve so? It may not be so bad, 
hopeless. Monsieur le Prince is a most courageous gentleman. As 
you know, the gossips name him 'the First Gentleman in all Europe/ 
If one Prince is so noble, there must be there are others." 

" Yes, I know, I know, I know I" Madame Eoyale exclaimed im- 
patiently. " So they always are all princes are brave, won-der-fully 
brave; all princesses are beautiful." 

She went back to the window and again stood looking down in the 
garden. Mademoiselle de Monglat had been at her wits' end for two 
weeks, ever since the Princess Henriette Marie's return from the 
convent after her mad midnight escapade, now she was in despair. 

" Ma belle Princess " she began coaxingly. 

Madame Eoyale wheeled, facing her not a graceful, dignified turn, 
such as Mademoiselle had been at great pains to teach her, but a 
quick, impulsive movement that was almost startling in its abruptness. 
" His Majesty wishes me to see Monsieur le Prince alone ?" she asked, 
and there was no sign of grief or anger in her expression or her tone. 

" Yes, Madame," Mademoiselle de Monglat almost gasped with 
surprise, " for thirty minutes. At his Eoyal Highness' earnest request, 
to which her Majesty, your mother, agreed." 

" Ah ! then I shall make myself very grand very grand for Mon- 
sieur le Prince. I must have flowers, Mamanga. No, not roses. I 
will be grand, but sad just a lit-tle sad. Do you know, Mamanga, 
that men are most fond of sad-faced women? Yes, I have discovered 
since my trouble. Before, when I was always smiling, they met me 
with smiles and passed on. Since then they gaze upon me so tenderly 
even the oldest of them lift their hats and stand with bowed heads 
as I pass by almost as though I was the Blessed Virgin herself 
I must be sad. Bring me the dress which I wore to the masque. 
Monsieur le Prince shall see me just as he saw me, my true lover, 
only I shall have violets and my cheeks are pale and my eyes are red 
from weeping. Yes, Mamanga, though I obey his Majesty and lay aside 
my mourning robe, I shall be sad just a lit-tle sad for Monsieur le 
Prince. Give me violets." 

Mademoiselle de Monglat felt that she had much to learn con- 
cerning the moods and fancies of her royal charge. She made the 
change of toilet as ordered, arranging the flowers to suit the taste of 
the whimsical beauty, then followed her silently into the apartments of 
Marie de Medicis. She even felt tempted to doubt the infallibility of 



The Love Affair of a Princess 37 

his Majesty's judgment in allowing the Prince of Wales to make per- 
sonal apologies for the insults of his humble fellow-countryman to the 
Princess Koyale. If he should defame, say aught against the char- 
acter of the young adventurer whose loss the Princess still persisted 
in mourning, Mademoiselle de Monglat shivered with horror at the 
mere thought of the consequence. 

VIII. 

THE Princess Henriette Marie stood with downcast eyes, her vio- 
lets clasped tightly between her hands, when the door was thrown open 
and her attendants announced, 

" His Eoyal Highness, Monsieur le Prince de Wales." 

Charles Stuart, the Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of Great 
Britain, walked in alone. He was splendid in blue satin and silver 
with a multitude of orders on his breast. 

"It is a great pleasure to welcome Monsieur le Prince in Paris," 
she greeted him, making a deep courtesy, her eyes still downcast. 

" I am honored, Mademoiselle," the Prince of Wales answered, 
bowing low. He was pale and weak and his voice sounded unsteady. 

" You travel to Spain, Monsieur, so cannot remain longer in Paris ?" 
she asked, and though there was a suspicion of coquetry in her voice 
she did not lift her eyes. 

The Prince flushed slightly. " Yes, Mademoiselle," he answered, 
" I quit Paris to-night." 

She looked up quickly. "What!" she cried, her eyes wide in 
startled surprise. " What ! You !" 

The violets dropped from her hands, strewing the floor between 
them. The next instant she was in his arms, her face hidden against 
his shoulder. 

It -was long before she drew away, neither knew how long, then 
she looked up and met his eyes, smiling. 

" They cheated me cruelly," she said. 

He did not answer, he could not, he had no words. He was made 
dumb by her tenderness, her marvellous beauty. 

"They told me that his Majesty wished me to give private audi- 
ence to Monsieur le Prince de Wales," she continued, and every glance 
of her eyes was a tender caress. 

" You were not easily persuaded," he answered, leading her to a 
seat. " It seemed years to me waiting." 

"'Twas because I did not know it was you. I believed them and 
thought it really was your Prince of Wales." She laughed as care- 
lessly as a happy child. " Do you know," she went on gayly, " I con- 
sented to receive him only because of you? Yes, only because of you, 
and I planned oh, so shrewdly without telling even Mamanga. I 



38 The Love Affair of a Princess 

was to be so very sad, to lead his mind to tender thoughts of Mademoi- 
selle la Infanta, and then, when his heart was touched, I would implore 
his aid, go down on my knees, for you." 

"Ah, my angel," he whispered, his face illumed with happiness. 
" Would you have done that for me ?" 

" Yes, if Monsieur le Prince had really come." 

" He has come," he assured her. " The Prince of Wales is here." 

" Ah ! then it was he who secured your relase from Louis, prevailed 
on him to allow us this meeting alone? Mamanga was right," she 
went on in an ecstasy of praise, " he must be he is a most brave 
and noble Prince and deserving of the title of the First Gentleman in 
all Europe." 

" But you do not understand," smiled the Prince. Then, taking 
her hands, he drew her gently towards him, gazing tenderly into her 
eyes. " It is I I, your lover, Thomas Stanley, am the Prince of 
Wales." 

She gazed at him, her eyes troubled, her face grown very pale, 
drew away to the extreme end of the seat. " You ?" she questioned 
with a dry throat. " You are the Prince of Wales ?" 

" Mademoiselle !" he cried, trying to again possess himself of her 
hand. 

She drew back with such a look of abhorrence on her face that 
he stopped, frozen. 

" You deceived me, told me lies to gain my love," she went 
on, her pale face twitching. 

" There were no lies ! The deceit was not aimed against you ! Ah, 
Mademoiselle," he extended his hands to her appealingly, " we are 
children of Kings, you and I, puppets of our nations' expedience. To 
promote their welfare I was betrothed to " 

" So that is the reason they let me see you," she said, springing 
to her feet, and the color, returning to her face, glowed in a deep 
red spot on each cheek. " Go !" she cried passionately. " Go ! Leave 
me before I forget I am a woman and must conduct myself with 
gentleness. Betrayed, defied by my servants, the sport of him to whom 
I gave my love bah ! that I should ever have trusted a man of royal 
blood. I thought you were a gentleman. A gentleman !" she repeated 
with a laugh of bitter derision. " A gentleman ! 'Tis a revenge worthy 
of Monsieur le Comte de Soissons, a plot to do credit even to the noble- 
ness of the First Gentleman of all Europe to humiliate a woman to 
the dust." 

" There was no plot, no humiliation !" he cried passionately, driven 
to the verge of madness by the bitterness of her reproach. " Is it 
humiliation to give the sincere love of a man's heart? That is my 
sin against you, Mademoiselle. Under the guidance of his Grace of 



The Love Affair of a Princess 39 

Buckingham I left England, travelling to Spain in disguise. With no 
other intention in our minds than to see the beauties of your country, 
we stopped in France. We entered Paris. As Englishmen of humble 
station we went with the rabble of the street to view a royal ballet/' 
His face softened, his voice grew very tender. " I saw you, Mademoi- 
selle for a moment you looked into my eyes." He hesitated, put up 
his hand, fumbling with the lace at his throat as a man choking. 
Then he went on : " The next morning, stealing away from the Duke 
of Buckingham, I hid in the forest with the hope of seeing you on 
your morning ride. You know what followed, Mademoiselle how I, 
an honest gentleman betrothed to another lady, the heir to the English 
throne, the hope of my nation, forgetful of a gentleman's honor, of 
my duty to England, faced death, dishonor, for the joy of your smiles, 
the hope of winning your love." He stopped, then went on more 
calmly : " Did I humiliate you, Mademoiselle ? Did I plot with 
Soissons ?" 

" Did you not plan with him that scene on the road ?" she de- 
manded, still passionate, though her voice had grown unsteady. 
" Though you would not deny their charges, you swore to me that you 
were an English gentleman. I was so foolish I believed you. Against 
them all, all their proofs, I took your simple word." 

" Mademoiselle," he had grown ghastly pale and his face wore 
the strained look of one who knowingly risks his all on a single throw, 
" I could not deny their accusations." He met her gaze squarely. 
" We were pursued after leaving London as suspicious characters, 
plotters against the life of Buckingham. Arriving in France, Dick 
Graham, our one serving-man, Mademoiselle, from mere wantonness, 
put his horse to chasing a flock of sheep. We should have been arrested 
as sheep-stealers had not our horses proved swifter than the bailiffs' 
legs. In Paris we took lodgings as described by the Count of Gram- 
mont under the names mentioned by him. Then I I, remembering 
only that I had taken a name not my own, when questioned by the 
Lord Chamberlain of the Queen of France stupidly gave the first name 
that fell on my tongue. There was no plot, Mademoiselle. I fought 
the gentlemen thrust against me as sincerely as those who overthrew 
me in the road. You saw that struggle. You saved my life. With 
your own body you protected mine from their blows." He stopped, 
gazing at her, imploring her belief with his eyes. 

She gazed at him with wide-opened eyes that seemed wonderfully 
deep. " I trusted you and you deceived me," she said. " You who 
are betrothed to another stole from me the best love of my life." 

" Ah, Mademoiselle, I was so hungry hungry for the love of a 
true woman who knew me only as a man, an honest man. When you 
said I had won you I could not believe it even there in the road I 



40 Old St. David's 

thought you would turn back desert me." He extended his hands 
to her imploringly. " Mademoiselle, forgive the deception, think only 
of my love." 

" But you you are betrothed to the Spanish Princess !" she cried, 
and though she did not move to come to him, the color came back into 
her cheeks and a radiance, as of a dawning smile, touched both lips 
and eyes. 

He had won. The joy almost blinded him. He put out his hand 
to her, smiling, but in his heart he longed to kiss the dust at her feet. 

" You saved my life, Mademoiselle. If you will take it, it is 
yours. My father will find a way to free me. He must. I go to 
Spain, but when I return free then, Mademoiselle, then " 

The curtain over the door was withdrawn. 

" Her Majesty the Queen Mother and Monsieur le Due de Bucking- 
ham, Mademoiselle la Princess," the attendant announced. 

" Mademoiselle my angel," the Prince whispered, his face all aglow 
with passionate pleading, "in the convent garden you gave me a rose 
the token of your love; give me now a violet a token of your 
faithfulness." 

He dropped on his knees, kissed tenderly the hand that gave him 
the blossom as her Majesty Marie de M6dicis, the Queen Mother of 
France, entered with the Englishman who at the royal masque the 
Queen of France had honored with her hand in the dance. 



OLD ST. DAVID'S 

"What an image of peace and rest." LONGFELLOW 

Written by request of the Pennsylvania Society of Colonial Dames of America 
and read at Old St. David's May 21, 1904 

BY FLORENCE EARLE COATES 

IN Eadnor Valley, from the world apart, 
The little Church stands peaceful as of old, 
Guarding her memories, yet half untold, 
Deep in the silent places of her heart. 

Life comes, and passes by her, as it wills; 
But musing on loved things evanished, 
She keeps the generations of the dead, 

Herself unchanged amid her beauteous hills: 



Old St. David's 41 

Unchanged, though full of change her days have been, 
Since builded here, ere Washington was born, 
She seemed the home of exiled hearts forlorn 

The open portal to hope's fair demesne. 

Close as the ivy that adorns her walls, 

So grateful thoughts have twined themselves and clung 

About this lowly sanctuary, sprung 
From that necessity which ever calls 

The soul of man to seek for something higher, 

Anhungered for a more celestial bread 

Than that wherewith his earthly life is fed, 
And faith was kindled here, and patriot fire ! 

Yea ; from this sacred pile, in days gone by, 

Brave men, to duty nobly dedicate, 

Went forth to strive against despotic fate 
Content for Liberty to live or die. 

Some came not back ; but some returned, victorious, 
Needing nor badge nor ribbon on the breast, 
To find here, by the little Church, their rest : 

Heroes and martyrs lowly yet how glorious ! 

Healed of all hurt, emparadised afar 

Though they abide, yet to our reverent sight 

About their graves there lingers still a light, 
Which is not as the light of moon or star; 

And very peaceful after stormy days, 

And sturdy as the antique oaks remain, 

Which sentinelled the burial of Wayne, 
Illustrious beyond the need of praise, 

Old Eadnor Church bestows her benison, 

Calling to us who from the past yet borrow, 

To love the right, and living for the morrow, 
Fulfil the hopes of heroes that are gone. 

So, through whatever of change the future brings, 

Shall she our memories and faiths defend 

A temple of the Highest to the end, 
Immortal through the love of deathless things ! 



By George Moore 

Author of "Avowals," "Esther Waters," etc. 



m. 

FEELING that he would never see Scotland again, Stevenson 
wrote in a preface to " Catriona :" " I see like a vision the youth 
of my father, and of his father, and the whole stream of lives 
flowing down there far in the north, with the sound of laughter and 
tears, to cast me out in the end, as by a sudden freshet, on these ulti- 
mate islands. And I admire and bow my head before the romance of 
destiny/' Does not this sentence read as if it were written in the stress 
of some effusive febrile emotion, as if he wrote while still pursuing his 
idea? And so it reminds us of a moth fluttering after a light. But 
however vacillating, the sentence contains some pretty clauses, and it 
will be remembered, though not perhaps in its original form. We shall 
forget the "laughter and the tears" and the "sudden freshet/' and a 
simpler phrase will form itself in our memories. The emotion that 
Stevenson had to express transpires only in the words " romance, des- 
tiny, ultimate islands." Who does not feel his destiny to be a romance, 
and who does not admire the ultimate island whither his destiny -will 
cast him? Giacomo Cenci, whom the Pope ordered to be flayed alive, 
no doubt admired the romance of destiny that laid him on his ultimate 
island, a raised plank, so that the executioner might conveniently roll 
up the skin of his belly like an apron. And a hare that I once saw 
beating a tambourine in Regent Street looked at me so wistfully that 
I am sure it admired in some remote way the romance of destiny that 
had taken it from the woodland and cast it upon its ultimate island 
in this case a barrow. But neither of these strange examples of the 
romance of destiny seems to me more wonderful than the destiny of a 
wistful Irish girl whom I saw serving drinks to students in a certain 
ultimate caf 6 in the Latin Quartier ; she too no doubt admired the des- 
tiny which had cast her out, ordaining that she should die amid tobacco 
smoke, serving drinks to students, entertaining them with whatever 
conversation they desired. 

Gervex, Mdlle. d' A vary, and I had gone to this cafe after the 
theatre for half-an-hour's distraction; I had thought that the place 
seemed too rough for Mdlle. d'Avary, but Gervex had said that 
we should find a quiet corner, and we had happened to choose one in 
charge of a thin, delicate girl, a girl touched with languor, weakness, 

42 



Moods and Memories 43 

and a grace which interested and moved me ; her cheeks were thin, and 
the deep gray eyes were wistful as a drawing of Rossetti; her waving 
brown hair fell over the temples, and was looped up low over the neck 
after the Rossetti fashion. I had noticed how the two women had 
looked at each other, one woman healthful and rich, the other poor 
and ailing; I had guessed the thought that had passed across their 
minds. Each had doubtless asked and wondered why life had come to 
them so differently. But first I must tell who was Mdlle. d'Avary 
and how I came to know her. I had gone to Tortoni, a once cele- 
brated cafe at the corner of the Rue Taitbout, the dining-place of Ros- 
sini, for when Rossini had earned an income of two thousand pounds 
a year it is recorded that he said, " Now I've done with music, it has 
served its turn, and I'm going to dine every day at Tortoni." Even in 
my time Tortoni was the rendezvous of the world of art and letters; 
everyone was there at five o'clock, and to Tortoni I went the day I 
arrived in Paris. To be seen there would make known the fact that I 
was in Paris Tortoni was a sort of publication. And at Tortoni I had 
discovered a young man, one of my oldest friends, a painter of talent; 
he had a picture in the Luxembourg, a man beloved by women. 
Gervex, for it was he, had seized me by the hand and with voluble 
eagerness had told me that I was the person he was seeking; he had 
heard of my coming and had sought me in every cafe from the Made- 
leine to Tortoni; he had been seeking me because he wished to ask 
me to dinner to meet Mdlle. d'Avary; we were to fetch her in the 
Rue des Capucines. I write the name of the street, not because it 
matters to my little story in what street she lived, but because the name 
is an evocation. Those who like Paris like to hear the names of the 
streets, and the long staircase turning closely up the painted walls, the 
brown painted doors on the landings and the bell-rope are evocative 
of Parisian life; and Mdlle. d'Avary is herself an evocation, for 
she was an actress of the Palais Royal. My friend too is an evocation, 
for he was one of those whose pride is not to spend money upon women, 
whose theory of life is that " If she likes to come round to the studio 
when one's work is done, nous pouvons faire la fete ensemble/' But 
however defensible this view of life may be, and there is much to be 
said for it, : I had thought that he might have refrained from saying 
when I looked round the drawing-room, admiring it a drawing-room 
furnished with sixteenth-century bronzes, Dresden figures, etageres 
covered with silver ornaments, three drawings by Boucher Boucher in 
three periods, a French Boucher, a Flemish Boucher, and an Italian 
Boucher that I must not think that any of these things were presents 
from him, and from saying when she came into the room that the 
bracelet on her arm was not from him. It had seemed to me in slightly 
bad taste that he should remind her that he made no presents, for his 



44 Moods and Memories 

remark had clouded her joyousness; I could see that she was not so 
happy at the thought of going out to dine with him as she had been. 

It was chez Foyoz that we dined, an old-fashioned restaurant still 
free from the new taste that likes walls painted white and gold, elec- 
tric lamps, and fiddlers. After dinner we had gone to see a play next 
door at the Odeon, a play in which shepherds spoke to each other about 
singing brooks, and stabbed each other for false women, a play diversi- 
fied with vintages, processions, wains, and songs. Nevertheless it had 
not interested us. And during the entr'actes Gervex had paid visits in 
various parts of the house, leaving Mdlle. d'Avary to make herself 
agreeable to me. I dearly love to walk by the perambulator in which 
Love is wheeling a pair of lovers. After the play he had said, " Allans 
boire un bock" and we had turned into a students' cafe, a cafe fur- 
nished with tapestries and oak tables, and old-time jugs and Medicis 
gowns, a cafe in which a student occasionally caught up a tall bock in 
his teeth, emptied it in a gulp, and after turning head over heels walked 
out without having smiled. Mdlle. d'Avary's beauty and fashion had 
drawn the wild eyes of all the students gathered there. She wore a 
flower-en woven dress, and from under the large hat her hair showed 
dark as night, and her southern skin, filled with rich tints, yellow and 
dark green where the hair grew scanty on the neck; the shoulders 
drooped into opulent suggestion in the lace bodice. And it was interest- 
ing to compare her ripe beauty with the pale, deciduous beauty of the 
waitress. Mdlle. d'Avary sat, her fan wide-spread across her bosom, 
her lips parted, the small teeth showing between the red lips. The 
waitress sat, her thin arms leaning on the table, joining very prettily 
in the conversation, betraying only in one glance that he knew that she 
was only a failure and Mdlle. d'Avary a success. It was some time 
before the ear caught the slight accent, an acccent that was difficult to 
trace to any country. Once I heard a southern intonation, and then 
a northern, finally I heard an unmistakable English intonation, and 
said, 

" But you're English." 

" I'm Irish. I'm from Dublin." 

And thinking of a girl reared in its Dublin conventions, but whom 
the romance of destiny had cast upon this ultimate cafe, I asked her 
how she had found her way here, and she told me she had left Dublin 
when she was sixteen that was how she managed to lose her English 
accent and had gone to Paris six years ago to take a situation as 
nursery governess. She used to take the children into the Luxembourg 
Gardens and talk to them in English, and one day a student had 
sat on the bench beside her. The rest of the story is easily guessed, she 
had gone to live with him. But he had no money to keep her and 
she had to come to this cafe to earn her living. 



Moods and Memories 45 

" It doesn't suit me, but what am I to do ? One must live, and 
the tobacco-smoke makes me cough." I sat looking at her, and she 
must have guessed what was passing in my mind, for she told me that 
one lung was gone, and we spoke of health, of the South, and she said 
that the doctor had advised her to go away south. 

And seeing that Gervex and Mdlle. d'Avary were engaged in conver- 
sation, I leaned forward and devoted all my attention to this wistful 
Irish girl, so interesting in her phthisis, in her red Medicis gown, her 
thin arms showing in the long rucked sleeves. I had to offer her 
drink, to do so was the custom of the place. She said that drink 
harmed her, but she would get into trouble if she refused drink, per- 
haps I would not mind paying for a piece of beef-steak instead. She 
had been ordered raw steak, and I have only to close my eyes to see 
her going over to the corner of the cafe and cutting a piece and putting 
it away. She said she would eat it before going to bed that would 
be two hours hence, about three, and all the while I was thinking of 
a cottage in the south amid olive- and orange-trees, an open window 
full of fragrant air, and this girl sitting by it. 

" I should like to take you South and attend upon you." 

" I'm afraid you would grow weary of nursing me. I should be 
able to give you very little in return for your care. The doctor says 
I'm not to love anyone." 

We must have talked for some time, for it was like waking out 
of a dream when Gervex and Mdlle. d'Avary got up to go, and seeing 
how interested I was he laughed, saying to Mdlle. d'Avary that it 
would be kind to leave me with my new friend. His pleasantry jarred, 
and though I should like to have remained I followed them into the 
street, where the moon was shining over the Luxembourg Gardens. 
As I have said before, I dearly love to walk by a perambulator in 
which Love is wheeling a pair of lovers, but it is sad to find oneself 
alone on the pavement at midnight, and I thought of going back to the 
cafe; but instead I wandered on thinking of the girl I had seen and 
of her certain death, for she could not live many months in that cafe. 
We all want to think at midnight under the moon when the city looks 
like a black Italian engraving, and poems come to us as we watch a 
swirling river; not only the idea of a poem came to me that night, 
but on the Pont Neuf the words began to sing together, and I jotted 
down the first lines before going to bed. Next morning I continued 
my poem and all day was passed in this little composition: 

We are alone! Listen, a little while, 
And hear the reason why your weary smile 
And lute-toned speaking is so very sweet 
And how my love of you is more complete 



46 Moods and Memories 

Than any love of any lover. They 

Have only been attracted by the gray, 

Delicious softness of your eyes, your slim 

And delicate form, or some such other whim, 

The simple pretexts of all lovers; I 

For other reason. Listen whilst I try 

To say, I joy to see the sunset slope 

Beyond the weak hours' hopeless horoscope, 

Leaving the heavens a melancholy calm, 

Of quiet color chanted like a psalm, 

In mildly modulated phrases; thus 

Your life shall fade like a voluptuous 

Vision beyond the sight, and you shall die 

Like some soft evening's sad serenity. . . . 

I would possess your dying hours; indeed, 

My love is worthy of the gift, I plead 

For them. Although I never loved as yet, 

Methinks that I might love you; I would get 

From out the knowledge that the time was brief, 

That tenderness whose pity grows to grief, 

And grief that sanctifies, a joy, a charm 

Beyond all other loves, for now the arm 

Of Death is stretched to you-ward, and he claims 

You as his bride. Maybe my soul misnames 

Its passion ; love perhaps it is not, yet 

To see you fading like a violet, 

Or some sweet thought, away, would be a strange 

And costly pleasure, far beyond the range 

Of formal man's emotion. Listen, I 

Will choose a country spot where fields of rye 

And wheat extend in rustling yellow plains, 

Broken with wooded hills and leafy lanes, 

To pass our Honeymoon; a cottage where 

The porch and windows are festooned with fair 

Green wreaths of eglantine, and look upon 

A shady garden where we'll walk alone 

In the autumn sunny evenings; each will see 

Our walks grow shorter, till to the orange-tree, 

The garden's length, is far, and you will rest 

From time to time, leaning upon my breast 

Your languid lily face. Then later still 

Unto the sofa by the window-sill 

Your wasted body I shall carry, so 

That you may drink the last left lingering glow 

Of evening, when the air is filled with scent 

Of blossoms ; and my spirits shall be rent 

The while with many griefs. Like some blue day 

That grows more lovely as it fades away, 

Gaining that calm serenity and height 

Of color wanted, as the solemn night 

Steals forward you will sweetly fall asleep 

For ever and for ever; I shall weep 

A day and night large tears upon your face, 



Moods and Memories 47 

Laying you then beneath a rose-red place 
Where I may muse and dedicate and dream 
Volumes of poesy of you; and deem 
It happiness to know that you are far 
From any base desires as that fair star 
Set in the evening magnitude of heaven. 
Death takes but little, yea, your death has given 
Me that deep peace, and immaculate possession 
Which man may never find in earthly passion. 

Good poetry of course not, but good verse, well turned every line 
except the penultimate. The elision is not a happy one, and the mere 
suppression of the " and" does not produce a satisfying line. 

Death takes but little, Death I thank for giving 
Me a remembrance, a pure possession 
Of unrequited love. 

And mumbling the last lines of the poem, I hastened to the cafe 
near the Luxembourg Gardens, wondering if I should find courage to 
ask the girl to come away to the South and live, fearing that I should 
not, fearing it was the idea rather than the deed that tempted me; 
for the soul of a poet is not the soul of Florence Nightingale. I was 
sorry for this wistful Irish girl, and was hastening to her, I knew not 
why; not to show her the poem the very thought was intolerable. 
Often did I stop on the way to ask myself why I was going, and what 
I was going to say to her; and without discovering an answer in my 
heart I hastened on. My quest was in my own heart. I would know 
if it were capable of making a sacrifice ; and sitting down at one of her 
tables I waited. But she did not come, and I asked the student by me 
if he knew the girl generally in charge of these tables. He said he 
did, and told me about her case. There was no hope for her, only a 
transfusion of blood could save her; she was almost bloodless. Then 
he described how blood could be taken from the arm of a heathy man 
and passed into the veins of the almost bloodless. But as he spoke 
things began to grow dim, his voice began to grow fain^, I heard some- 
one saying, " You're very pale," and he ordered some brandy for me. 
The South could not save her; practically nothing could, and I 
returned home thinking of her. 

Twenty years have passed and I am thinking of her again. Poor 
little Irish girl ! cast out in the end by a sudden freshet on an ultimate 
cafe. Poor little heap of bones ! And I bow my head and admire the 
romance of destiny which ordained that I, who only saw her once, should 
be the last to remember her. Perhaps I should have forgotten her 
had it not been that I wrote a poem, a poem which I now inscribe 
and dedicate to her nameless memory. 



48 Moods and Memories 

IV. 

YESTERDAY I drove to breakfast seeing Paris continuously unfold- 
ing, prospect after prospect, green swards, white buildings, villas en- 
garlanded; to-day I drive to breakfast through the white torridities 
of Hue la Blanche. The back of the coachman grows drowsier, and 
would have rounded off into sleep long ago, had it not been for the 
great paving-stones that swing the vehicle from side to side. We 
have to climb the Eue Lepic; the poor, little, fainting animal will 
never be able to draw me to the Butte: so I dismiss my carriage, 
half out of pity, half out of a wish to study the Eue Lepic, so typical 
is it of the upper lower classes. In the Hue Blanche there are portes- 
cocheres, but in Eue Lepic there are narrow doors, partially grated, 
open on narrow passages at the end of which, squeezed between the 
wall and the stairs, are small rooms where concierges sit, eternally 
en camisole, amid vegetables and sewing. The wooden blinds are 
flung back on the faded yellow walls, revealing a portion of white 
bed-curtain and a heavy middle-aged woman, en camisole; passing 
between a cooking-stove in which a rabbit in a tin pail lies steeping; 
the men sitting at their trades in the windows. The smell of leather 
follows me, and a few doors farther a girl sits trimming a bonnet, 
her mother beside her. The girl looks up, pale with the exhausting 
heat. At the corner of the next street there is the marchand de mns, 
and opposite is the dirty little charbonnier, and standing about a 
little hole which he calls his boutique are a group of women in dis- 
colored peignoirs and heavy carpet slippers. They have baskets on their 
arms. Everywhere there are traces of a meagre and humble life, 
but nowhere is the demented wretch that we meet in our London 
streets the man with bare feet, the furtive and frightened creature, 
gnawing a crust and drawing a black, tattered shirt about his consump- 
tive chest. 

The asphalt is melting, the reverberation of the stones intolerable, 
my feet ache and burn. At the top of the street I enter a still poorer 
neighborhood, a still steeper street, but so narrow that the shadow 
has already begun to draw out on the pavements. At the top of the 
street is a stairway, and above the stairway a grassy knoll, and above 
the knoll a windmill lifts its black and motionless arms. 

For the mill is now a mute ornament, a sign for the Bal du Moulin 
de la Galette. 

As I ascend the streets grow whiter, and at the Butte they are 
empty of everything except the white rays of noon. There are some 
dusty streets, and silhouetting against the dim sky a dilapidated fa- 
c,ade of some broken pillars. Villas stand in the midst of ruined 
gardens, circled by high walls, crumbling and white, and looking 
through a broken gateway I see a fountain splashing, but nowhere 
inhabitants that correspond to these houses, only a workwoman, a 



Moods and Memories 49 

grisette, a child crying in the dust. The Butte Montmartre is full 
of suggestion; grand folk must at some time have lived there. Could 
it be that this place was once country? 

On my left an iron gateway swinging on rusty hinges leads on to 
a large terrace at the end of which is a row of houses. It is in one 
of these houses that my friend lives, and as I pull the bell I think that 
the pleasure of seeing him is worth the long way, and my thoughts 
float back over the long time I have known Paul. We have known 
each other always, since we begun to write. The servant comes to the 
door with a baby in her arms. Another baby ! She tells me that Mon- 
sieur et Madame are gone out for the day. No breakfast, no smoke, 
no talk about literature, only a long walk back cabs are not found 
at these heights a long walk back through the roasting sun. And it 
is no consolation to be told that I should have written and warned 
them I was coming. 

But I must rest, and ask leave, and the servant brings me some 
claret and a siphon; and the study is better to sit in than the front 
room, for in the front room, although the shutters are closed, the white 
rays pierce through the chinks and lie like sword-blades along the 
floor. The study is pleasant, the wine refreshing, and I begin to feel 
better by the northern window. The house seems built on nothing. 
Fifty feet more than that a hundred feet below me there are gar- 
dens, gardens caught somehow in the hollow of the hill, and planted 
with trees tall trees, for swings hang out of them ; otherwise I should 
not know they were tall. From this window they look like shrubs, 
and beyond the houses that surround these gardens Paris spreads out 
over the plain, an endless tide of bricks and stone, splashed with white 
where the sun shines on some railway station or great boulevard; a 
dim, reddish mass, like a gigantic brick-field, and far away a line 
of hills, and above the plain a sky as pale and faint as the blue ash 
of a cigarette. I cannot look upon this city without emotion; it 
has been all my life to me. I came here in my youth, I relinquished 
myself to Paris, never extending once my adventure beyond Bas Meu- 
don, Ville d'Avray, Fontainebleau and Paris has made me how 
much of my mind do I owe to Paris ? And by thus acquiring a father- 
land more ideal than the one birth had arrogantly imposed, because 
deliberately chosen, I have doubled my span of life, sure of finding 
there all the span of life. Do I not exist in two countries? Have 
I not furnished myself with two sets of thoughts and sensations? 
Ah ! the delicate delight of owning un pays ami a country where you 
may go when you are weary to madness of the routine of life, sure of 
finding there all the sensations of home, plus that of amorous caprice. 
. . . The pleasure of a literature that is yours without being wholly 
your own, a literature that is like an exquisite mistress in whom you 



50 Moods and Memories 

find consolation for all the commonplaces of life. The comparison 
is perfect, for although I know these French folk better than all else 
in the world, they must ever remain my pleasure and not my work in 
life. It is strange that this should be so, for, in truth, I know them 
strangely well. I can see them living their lives from hour to hour; 
I know what they would say on any given occasion. There is Paul. 
I understand nothing more completely than that man's mind. I know 
its habitual color, and every varying shade, and yet I may not make 
him the hero of a novel nor lay the scene in Montmartre, though I 
know it so well. I know when he dresses, how long he takes to dress, 
and what he wears. I know the breakfast he eats, and the streets 
down which he passes their shape, their color, their smell. I know 
exactly how life came to him, how it has affected him. The day I 
met him in London! Paul in London! he was there to meet une 
petite fermiere with whom he had started an intrigue when he went 
to Normandy to finish his novel. Paul is fonder 'ement bon; he mar- 
ried her, and this is their abode. There is the salle a manger fur- 
nished with a nice sideboard in oak, and six chairs to match; on the 
left is their bedroom, and there is the baby's cot, a present from 
le grand, le cher et illustre maUre. Paul and Mrs. Paul get up at 
twelve and they loiter over breakfast; some friends come in and they 
loiter over les petits verres. About four Paul begins to write his arti- 
cle, which he finishes, or nearly finishes, before dinner. They loiter 
over dinner until it is time for Paul to take his article to the news- 
paper. He loiters in the printing office or the cafe until his proof is 
ready, and when that is corrected he loiters in the many cafes of the 
Faubourg Montmartre, smoking interminable cigars, finding his way 
back to the Butte between three and four in the morning. Paul is 
fat and of an equable temperament. He believes in naturalism all 
day, particularly after a breakfast over les petits verres. He never 
said an unkind word to anyone, and I am sure never thought one. 
He used to be fond of grisettes, but since he married he has thought 
of no one but his wife. II ecrit des choses raides, but no woman ever 
had a better husband. Now you know him as well as I do. Here are 
his books: The Eougon-Macquart series, each volume presented to 
him by the author, Goncourt, Huysmanns, Duranty, Ceard, Maupas- 
sant, Hennique, etc., in a word, the works of those with whom I grew 
up, they who tied my first literary pinafore round my neck. But here 
are Les Moralites Legendaires, by Jules Laforgue, and Les Illumina- 
tions, by Rimbaud. Paul has not read these books; they were sent 
to him, I suppose, for review, and put away on the bookcase, all uncut ; 
their authors do not visit here. And this sets me thinking that one 
knows very little of any generation except one's own. True, that I 
know a little more of the symbolists than Paul. I am the youngest 



Moods and Memories 51 

of the naturalists, the eldest of the symbolists. The naturalists af- 
fected the art of painting, the symbolists the art of music; and since 
the symbolists there has been no artistic manifestation the game is 
played out. When Huysmanns and Paul and myself are dead it will 
be as impossible to write a naturalistic novel as to revive the mega- 
therium. Where is Hennique? When Monet is dead it will be as 
impossible to paint an impressionistic picture as to revive the ichthyo- 
saurus. A little world of ideas goes by every five-and-twenty years, 
and the next that emerges will be incomprehensible to me, as incom- 
prehensible as Monet was to Corot. . . . Was the young generation 
knocking at the door of the Opera Comique last night? If the music 
was the young generation I am sorry for it. It was the second time 
I had gone to hear its music, and I left exasperated after the third act. 
A friend was with me and he left, but for different reasons; he suf- 
fered in his ears; it was my intelligence that suffered. Why did the 
flute play the chromatic scale when the boy said, "II faut que cela 
soit un grand navire"? and why were all the 'cellos in motion when 
the girl answered, "Cela ou bien tout outre chose"? I suffered be- 
cause of the divorce of the orchestra and singers, the singers spoke 
through music. It was monotonous as the Sahara, league after league, 
and I lost amid sands. A chord is heard in "Lohengrin" to sustain 
Elsa's voice and it performs its purpose; a motive is heard to attract 
attention to a certain part of the story, and it fills its purpose; when 
Ortrude shrieks out the motive of the secret, and in its simplest form, 
at the church door, the method may be criticised as crude, but the 
crudest melodrama is better than this desert wandering. And while 
I ponder on the music of the younger generation, remembering the per- 
plexity it had caused me, I heard a vagrant singing on the other side 

of the terrace: 

" Moi, je m'en fous, 

Je reste dans mon trou." 

and I say, " I hear the truth in the mouth of the vagrant minstrel, 
one who possibly has no trou to lay his head. Et moi aussi, je reste 
dans mon iron, et mon trou est assez beau que j'y reste car mon iron 
est Eichard Wagner. My trou is the Ring the Sacrosant Ring. 
Again I fell to musing. The intention of Liszt and Wagner and 
Strauss was to write music. However long Wotau might ponder on 
Mother Earth, the moment came when the violins begin and the spring 
uncloses, and the lovers fly to the woods. 

The vagrant continued his wail, and forgetful of Paul, forgetful of 
all things but the philosophy of the minstrel of the Butte, I picked my 
way down the tortuous streets repeating: 

" Moi, je m'en fous, 

Je reste dans mon trou." 



52 Moods and Memories 

v. 

THE day dies in sultry languor. A warm night breathes upon 
this town, and in the exhaustion of light and hush of sound life 
strikes sharply on the ear and brain. 

I returned home early in the evening, and sitting in the window, 
read till surprised by the dusk; and when my eyes could no longer 
follow the printed page, holding the book between finger and thumb, 
my face resting on the other hand, I looked out on the garden, allow- 
ing my heart to fill with memories. 

A line of leafage nearly hides the Thames, but the line dips, reveal- 
ing a strip of gray water; warehouses and a factory chimney rise up 
phantasmal and gray upon a dead and colorless sky. Four lamps, two 
on each side of the factory chimney, look across the river; one con- 
stantly goes out, always the same lamp, and a moment after it 
springs into place again. 

Across my window a beautiful branch waves like a feather fan. It 
is the only part of the picture worked out in detail. I watch its soft 
and almost imperceptible swaying, and am tempted to count the leaves. 
Below it, and a little beyond it, between it and the river, the night 
gathers in the gardens; and there amid dead greens, the black stain 
of a man's coat passes, and in a line with the coat, on the beautifully 
swaying branch, a belated sparrow is hopping from twig to twig, awaken- 
ing his mates in his search for a satisfactory resting-place. In the 
sharp towers of Temple Gardens the pigeons have gone to sleep. I 
can see the cots under the conical caps of slate. 

My dinner was a simple one, a cut off the joint at the " Kainbow," 
a bit of cheese, a glass of port. And now in the pleasant torpor of 
digestion my brain becomes strangely clear, and through a strange 
lucidity of mind memories rise, memories of weeks spent amid the 
old stairways and courtyards of Dieppe, memories of a summer wear- 
ing itself aAvay in the quiet valley of Brittany, memories of gables 
and their projecting shadows, memories of stillness falling on desolate 
lands. All the griefs and failures of those distant years I feel again 
and am interested, am touched how pathetic life is to look back upon. 
Memories of women? Of course. The charm of thin, blond women, 
pale, perverse eyes, the gleam of fawn-colored hair, and a haunting 
odor of heliotrope, cruel women in whose perverse eyes deception alone 
shone always, even when they were children. In a drawing-room of 
long ago, stiff and middle-class, notwithstanding the crowns placed 
over the tall portraits, I see a picture of two children. Both are fair, 
but she is fairer than corn, and in her pale eyes and thinly curved 
lips there is a mixed expression of yearning and restlessness; as the 
child was so is the woman, and Georgette has lived to paper one entire 
wall of her bedroom with the trophies won in the battle-fields of ardently 



Moods and Memories 53 

danced cotillons. The other child is of stricter nature, and even now 
her slightly darker ringlets are less wanton than her sister's, and hang 
around her face less fancifully, and looking through her pensive eyes 
it is as easy to predict children for her as cotillon favors for the other. 
In these hours of smiling melancholy we remember those who deceived 
us, those who made us suffer, and in hours like these, faces, fragments 
of faces, rise out of the past, the line of a bent neck, the whiteness of 
a hand, but never the eyes they are always averted. 

I listen to the long road breaking through the stillness like a tide 
upon the beach. What is each generation but a tide? A little sound 
and fury, and each is drawn back into the ocean. I listen to the dull 
roar of general life, and reflect, and then, passing from it, I consider 
the problem of my own individual life, so strange in its simplicity, 
so pathetic in its little folly, nothing better and nothing worse than 
a toy, a marvellously painted toy with an amusing squeak in it a 
squeak which is amusing or wearying just as the mood moves you to 
listen. The gross, jaded, uncouth present has slipped from me as a 
garment might, and I see the past like a little show, struggles and 
heart-breakings of long ago, watching it with all the same indifferent 
curiosity as I might the regulated mimicry of a stage play. Pictures 
from the past come and go without an effort of will. I see my past 
life as I might see the world above reflected in evening waters. The 
picture now before me is one of guests assembled for a dinner-party 
at the Comtesse Ninon de Calvador's. A very young man arrives with 
a bouquet, for it is Ninon's fete. As she rises from her chair to receive 
him, she displays the lines of her ample form, swathed in a bright 
blue tea-gown. The room is her boudoir; the walls are hung with 
strange drawings and pictures of herself; and from the garden come 
terrible cries from the caged apes. Above the broken furniture appears 
a tall young man, an astonishingly small head set on wide shoulders. 
He has been engaged in contemplation of a picture representing steam- 
engines in the course of construction, and when I ask him if he sells 
his pictures laughs derisively ; he is occupied in considering the rhythm 
of color. I see a strange, thin face, like an ecce homo, a wretched form 
clothed in a silk shirt; he is playing the piano; he is playing, I am 
told, his setting of Charles Cross's monologue, " The Dried Herring." 
The celebrated Villiers de L'Isle Adam comes in about the middle 
of dinner fumbling at his shirt collar, which does not hold together, 
and apologizing for being late, and assuring us that he has already 
dined. Fortunately for him, the statement is not believed. He has 
brought with him a young man who sadly misconducts himself, for 
instead of accepting without protest a plate in which a cat has just 
been fed he loses his temper, thumps the table, and exclaims, " Et bien 
je casse tout." 



54 Moods and Memories 

The scene closed suddenly as a magic lantern show, and I begin 
to ponder on this strange Madame Ninon de Calvador, on her love 
of strange art and her love of artists. She did not love great artists, 
her love was given to those who are known in Paris as les rates, and 
to be near her beloved rates she didn't live in the Champs Elysees, or 
any neighboring street, as would have been suitable to her fortune and 
rank, but in some mysterious street, I think it was Eue le Moine, 
a dilapidated street hidden behind the Boulevard de Clichy. A dingy 
quarter, no doubt, but one in which there were some handsome houses. 
The dining-room was large, and this was well, for the strange and 
original fashion in which Ninon spent her money was by keeping open 
house; all the rates of Montmartre could dine there when they liked 
every day if they pleased. Any rate might introduce another rate, the 
only restriction being that whoever came to dine had written poems 
and novels which no newspaper could print or painted pictures that 
could not be hung in any exhibition. I remember the garden in which 
lived Ninon's pets macaws, monkeys, squirrels, and many cats. The 
cats were free to wander about the house, sometimes to the great dis- 
comfort of the musician a certain smell had interrupted beautiful 
singing. As the dark cloth is illuminated again and we see a picture, 
the garden becomes visible to me. Sometimes a group forms round the 
guitarist, and the pure notes of a woman's voice goes up through the 
stillness. Others stroll towards the house, collect about the piano, and 
they come again into the fragrant air with scarves about their shoulders. 
Some speak of love, all dream of love, attitudes grow more abandoned, 
white and pensive hands fall clasped over knees, and among the half- 
seen faces I catch sight of a tall, blond woman with earnest eyes. No 
one knows her, and it is impossible to discover who had brought her 
here. It is said that she is Ninon's cousin, the wife of a rich commer- 
cant. Now I see myself talking to her. She says she has not been in 
artistic society before, and seems pleasurably surprised at the com- 
pany in which she finds herself. But our talk is interrupted by a poet 
improvising verses, and he has selected her as a subject for his licen- 
tious verses reassure yourself, reader, licentious merely from the point 
of view of prosody. He begins: 

" Ta unquc est de santal sur les vifs frissons d'or, 
Mais c'est une autre, que j'adore." 

The women draw round the poet, and sit circlewise. His pale hair 
hangs about his fine features, he is a sort of sensual Christ. . . . Now 
and again verses from a poem that I have forgotten reach me. The 
women still sit circlewise as if enchanted ; the night inspires him, and 
he improvises a trifle that he has been pondering for days : 



Moods and Memories 55 

" Lune bleme et sans aurfiole, 
Avec les langueurs d'une cr6ole, 
Vous revez douloureusement 
Dans le pays d'azur endormant; 

" Tendes que les pales fontaines, 
Comme des flutes de lointaines, 
Exhalent vers les cieux blafords 
La d6tresse des nenuphars." 

But the languor of the night is over ; the blue is turning gray, and 
now I can see into the branches of the tree, and distinguish the gro- 
tesque form of the ape that broke his chain last night; all night he 
interrupted the poet. . . . How still the air is! Now the cocks are 
answering each other; loud is their shrilling! so loud that I awake, 
and am surprised to find myself sitting at my window in King's Bench 
Walk. A moment ago I was in Madame Ninon de Calvador's garden 
and every whit as much as I am in King's Bench Walk. Ninon de 
Calvador what has become of her ? The rest of her story is unknown 
to me, and I sit looking into the darkness for a long time until some- 
thing strikes a match. Yes, I remember; the journalist who had eaten 
out of the cat's plate wrote a description of her in the Gil Bias, and 
she learned for the first time how the world viewed her hospitality, and 
how misinterpreted were her efforts to benefit the arts and the artists. 
It seems to me that I heard who told me I cannot tell, all this is so 
long ago but it seems to me that I heard that it was this article that 
killed her. 

The passing of things is always a moving subject for meditation, 
and it is strange how accident will bring back a scene, explicit in every 
detail the tree taking shape upon the pale sky, and the hairy ugliness 
of the ape in the branches, the ducks betaking themselves to the pond, 
the poet talking to the commercant's wife, Madame de Calvador lean- 
ing on her lover's arm. Had I a palette, I could match the blue of the 
peignoir with the faint gray in the sky. I could make a picture out 
of that dusky suburb. Had I a pen, I could write verses about these 
people of old time, but the picture would be a shrivelled thing com- 
pared with the dream, and the verses would limp; the moment I 
sought a pen the pleasure of the meditation which is still with me, 
which still endures, would vanish. Better sit by my window and enjoy 
what remains of the mood and the memory. The mood has nearly 
passed; the desire of action is approaching. ... I would give much 
for another memory, but memory may not be beckoned, and my mind 
is dark now, dark as the garden ; the swaying, fan-like bough by my 
window is nearly one mass of green ; the last sparrow has fallen asleep. 
I hear nothing. . . . But I hear a horse trotting in the Strand. 



THE BABY GOES A-FISHING 

By Cyrus Townsend Brady 

Author of "A Doctor of Philosophy," "The Southerners," "The Corner in 
Coffee," "A Little Traitor to the South," etc. 



THE baby did not go alone, of course. No! He was too young 
to do that, being only three and a half years old at the time. 
Jim and I went with him. He took us, or we took him, I don't 
know which exactly, neither does Jim; anyway, it does not matter 
very much we all three went together, and in spite of the baby's 
mother! I think the mother wanted very much to go along, so did 
Mrs. Jim, and the little girl, and the maids, but we really could not 
take everybody, you see; we had to draw the line somewhere, so we 
drew it at the ladies. " I dest want to do wif de men," said the baby 
proudly, and as it was preeminently his own particular fishing excur- 
sion, we had to humor him, of course. 

Jim he is forty-seven years old, if he is a day! was very fond 
of the baby, and it was not his baby either, it was mine. I don't 
usually call the baby " it," seeing that he is a little boy, but that time 
it seemed more grammatical to do so. 

But where was I? Oh, yes, talking about Jim! Jim he had 
other names than that, of course, big, handsome, grown-up names like 
you see in story-books had a fishing and hunting lodge in the moun- 
tains of Minnesota, not far from the Mississippi Eiver. We all sailed 
down the river with the baby in a little stern-wheeled steamboat called 
the Cyclone! And it was the tamest, quietest cyclone I was ever 
caught in out West. It was very pleasant up in the pilot-house, and 
being an old sailor myself, the captain let me steer the boat while the 
baby and Jim and Mrs. Jim and Jim's little girl and the baby's mother 
and the maids all ate peanuts ! They ate five large bags too. The 
baby wanted to steer the boat himself, but we persuaded him to accept 
peanuts instead. 

The lodge they called it Brook Lodge was a most delightful 
place. There was a log house for the grown-ups, with a men's side 
and a women's side, separated by a curtain which was tucked up during 
the day. It the cabin, that is had eight sleeping-berths in it, two 
in each corner, one above the other, like a Pullman car, and in the 
end of it was a huge rock fireplace. There was another log cabin for 

66 



The Baby Goes A-Fishing 57 

the children and the maids, the baby slept there, and still another 
house for a kitchen, named the Waldorf-Astoria. The dining-room 
was made out of wire screens bolted together, with a canvas roof over 
it; there was an ice-house, a stable, and so on; and the bath-room was 
a tent with a real tin tub in it on a board floor. 

It was quite dark when we drove up to the place, and we all had 
to work very hard for awhile opening the cabins, preparing supper, 
building fires, carrying water, and getting ready for the night. Jim 
believed in everybody working. Even the baby worked ; he ran around 
everywhere and bossed the job he and Jim. As for me, I brought 
in seventeen large logs for the fire ! a thing I had not attempted since 
I was a boy and had to do chores at home. 

The lodge stood on the top of a high hill covered with trees, which 
happened to be situated just where three valleys met; through each 
of them ran a little brook filled with fish. The whole place was sur- 
rounded with mountains, and out there they had farms on the moun- 
tain tops ! We could see the brown wheat-fields on the crests. The 
baby had caught just one solitary fish in all his life. That was in 
the Adirondacks the year before. He capsized the boat with me in it 
when he caught it, and he remembered about it and wanted to do it 
again catch fish, I mean, not capsize a boat, of course, that part he 
did not like at all, neither did I ! So Jim, who was the nicest fellow 
in the world and great chums with the baby, planned to take him fish- 
ing in the morning. 

That morning it rained. I never saw it rain cats-and-dogs, but 
if it ever did or could rain cats-and-dogs, I am sure it would have 
done it then. The baby was miserable, so were we. It looked as 
though it would rain forever. We wanted to take him anyway, rain 
or no rain, but the baby's mother said no. She put her foot down too 
when she said it. The baby's mother's foot is small, but the baby and 
I have learned that when it comes down it covers all the necessary 
territory. So we had to amuse ourselves the best way we could before 
the log fires in the cabins, praying and hoping the rain would cease. 
Meanwhile we busied ourselves by getting everything ready in case 
it ever did clear. 

Sure enough, at about three o'clock the rain at last stopped. It 
was cold and damp; the sky remained overcast and threatening; the 
woods, the fields, and especially the weeds and grass bordering the 
brooks, were soaking wet; and the brooks themselves were full to 
overflowing with dark, muddy water. The prospects for good fishing, 
therefore, were not brilliant. Unfortunately, we could only spend one 
day at the lodge, so we had to go fishing then or not at all. Besides, 
we really wanted to go to take him, that is. So we begged the baby's 
mother, at least we got Mrs. Jim to do it for us, and at last she 



58 The Baby Goes A-Fishing 

said we might take him, although she knew it would be the death of 
him. 

We fixed him up for the occasion with great care. We did not wish 
to kill the baby because we he, I mean wanted to go fishing. A 
pair of rubber boots belonging to Jim's little girl were brought out. 
The baby eyed them dubiously while the rest of us smiled. " You 
won't laugh at me, mamma," he said nervously, " w'en I det 'em on 
me, will you?" The baby, like most persons, male persons, that is, 
objected to being laughed at. The boots came up to his middle nearly. 
We covered his overcoat with an old blue sweater, too large for him, 
which came down to his boots, and then we put one of Jim's old caps 
on his head. He looked so funny when he was dressed finally that his 
mother and Mrs. Jim and the others had to go out behind the cabin 
and laugh into the rain-barrels for fear he would hear them and have 
his feelings hurt. Babies have feelings, you know, just like boys and 
girls and grown-ups. Jim and I did not laugh. We were proud of 
our handiwork. So was the baby. You should have seen him. 

During the day we had given much thought to the question of 
transportation. The baby could not walk in those boots, or through 
the weeds either. We had to carry him, that was certain. Jim sug- 
gested that we take him in a barrel. Mrs. Jim and the baby's mother 
said that was absurd, but we thought not. So Jim hunted up a cement- 
barrel, and I, being an old sailor, made a rope sling with two handles 
to it to carry the barrel. 

Well, we had it ready at last, and into it we loaded the baby with 
the bait and some other things, and each seizing a handle we started 
off down the hill, the whole family looking gleefully on. The baby 
was very doubtful about the barrel. It was too short, we soon found, 
and as the baby's weightiest part is his head he is a very large- 
headed, brainy infant the whole contrivance with him in it was de- 
cidedly top-heavy, and lurched to and fro frightfully as we slipped and 
stumbled down the steep, wet hill. It is a wonder he was not pitched 
out. The baby was plucky, however, and he held to the barrel tightly, 
but when we reached the bottom he ejaculated quite brokenly between 
swings, " Dis barrel makes me awshul sick !" It was enough to make 
an old sailor, like myself, seasick, I guess. So we took him out. Away 
up at the top of the hill the ladies, who could see us quite plainly, 
were yelling, " We told you so !" But we did not pay any attention to 
them then, as you may imagine. 

After that one of us carried the baby pickaback, while the other 
one carried the barrel, the rod, the bait, and the other things. We 
took turns carrying the baby ; he was the heaviest, although the barrel 
and the other things were most awkward to handle. Jim carried the 
baby most of the time. He hasn't had so many babies to carry as I 



The Baby Goes A-Fishing 59 

have and it was more of a novelty to him than to me, so I let him 
gladly. You have no idea how heavy that baby got before we reached 
the creek. I never knew before that a child's weight could increase 
so greatly in so short a time. It seemed a long time too. 

Well, we reached what looked like a good place for fishing at last. 
We set the baby down in the grass temporarily, and while Jim baited 
the hook I fixed our famous fishing-barrel as close to the water's 
edge as possible, so as to make a nice, dry, convenient place for the 
baby to fish from. Then I sat down in the wet grass and held the bar- 
rel by the rope handle to keep it from sliding into the creek. Then 
Jim put the baby in the barrel, handed him the small rod, and pro- 
ceeded to give him his first lesson. 

The baby was an apt pupil. In about ten seconds he got a fierce 
bite. He pulled frantically, and out of the water came a big sucker 
about a foot long! I don't know which was the more surprised, the 
sucker or the baby. The infant yelled like mad and dropped the rod. 
We did not know just why he yelled fear or excitement, perhaps 
both. Anyway, Jim grabbed the pole and I grabbed Jim with my free 
hand, so we did not all slide into the brook then. We gave the baby 
the pole again and he finally landed the fish high and dry on the 
bank. As it lay flapping and wriggling in the grass he eyed it glee- 
fully and shouted and screamed and clapped his hands with trium- 
phant joy. We did too. It was as much fun as going-to-the-circus- 
with-the-children used to be. 

We all made so much noise over this first capture at that place 
that there was no use in trying it there any longer, so we unhooked 
the fish, put it in the fishing bag slung over the baby's shoulder, and 
started off again. 

This time we found a likely trout-hole. We were most anxious 
to have the baby catch a trout if possible. So we fixed things as 
before and cautioned him to be very quiet, as trout do not like noise. 
He was as still as a mouse after we got him planted in his barrel again, 
rod in hand. It was a bad day for trout, but we almost had one, at 
least we thought so, when the baby suddenly broke the exciting silence 
by a frightened howl ! " Sh-&h-sh I" I said, but the howling only in- 
creased in volume. " What's the matter ?" asked Jim. " Dis fish is 
bitin' me in de stummick !" wailed the baby, pointing to the bag, which 
had slipped around so that it hung before his waist-band. The fish 
he had caught and placed in the bag had suddenly commenced wrig- 
gling, which had scared the young angler out of his wits. Of course, 
we lost that trout. 

We explained matters and quieted him down. In the middle of it 
all he got another bite, dropped the rod, and away it went. Jim got 



60 A Guide 

it, he also got very wet, but when the baby pulled out his second fish, 
another sucker, he said he did not mind it getting wet, I mean. 

Well, we fished the brook for about five miles, more or less, and the 
baby caught one sucker per mile. The last effort was attended by sev- 
eral circumstances of an unusual and dramatic nature. 

The bank of the creek was everywhere very slippery and the 
standing-ground very narrow. I planted my heels in the ooze and 
sat down with my back against the bank, holding the barrel between my 
knees, on one of which Jim calmly and recklessly sat down. They 
were all depending upon me, you see. In the excitement of catching 
the last fish something gave way, my feet slipped ; how it ever happened 
I cannot explain of course it was the baby's fault, since he brought 
us fishing. Anyway, we all fell in. That is, Jim and I did. As we 
slipped we both desperately caught at the barrel and lifted it clear of 
the water. The baby gallantly hung on to the edge with one hand and 
with the other clutched desperately the rod. When matters quieted 
down again he calmly remarked to his two faithful servitors Jim and 
me, you know standing breast high in the ice-cold water above our 
waists, " I dot anudder fish !" Inasmuch as the fish had been flapping 
in our faces for the last half minute we were quite aware of the fact. 

We put the baby, still in his barrel, back on the bank again, clam- 
bered out of the brook slowly, and sadly sat down by the barrel and 
emptied the water out of our long wading-boots and looked plaintively 
at the young fisherman. He was a wise baby indeed. I said before 
that he was large-headed and brainy. He returned our mournful and 
beseeching gaze with interest and at last remarked gravely, " I dess 
I'll do home now. I had anush." 

We too had had " anush." So we carried him back over the hills 
and through the fields and far away awfully " far away/' by the way 
till we reached the lodge again. There he was received, with his six 
suckers and his two servitors, with open arms by his mother and by 
Mrs. Jim, and by the little girl and all the rest. I guess they were 
glad they had not gone along when they saw us. 

The next morning was bright and sunny. We had an hour or 
two at our disposal before the time for leaving came. We dressed him 
up as before and "kodacked" him. That baby wanted to go fishing 
again, but this time we demurred. As I said before, we had had 
"anush" to last us for some time and it was Sunday, anyway. 

f 
A GUIDE 

BY RICHARD KIRK 

OEEKING Enjoyment on a day, 
O Came Sorrow, pointing out the way. 



THE COURT OF PAN 

By Elizabeth Duer 

Author of "The Green Dragon" etc. 



I. 

THE garden lay at the back of the house across a level stretch 
of ground and then mounted the hill terrace by terrace. On 
the level it was laid out in smooth, grass-carpeted courts, divided 
from each other by hedges and dwarf trees, and these open-air rooms 
were furnished with stone settles and tables, with tall vases, and statues 
of nymphs and fauns who seemed to whisper together in the June moon- 
light under the fountain's splash. 

A strange woman, gray and ghostly, came stealing behind the 
hedges, flitting from bush to bush till she reached a marble Pan on 
his pedestal beside the copper beech, and there she stopped to listen. 

Below the statue was a carved seat, sheltered from view by a semi- 
circle of trees, and on the seat, with hands clasped, sat a pair of lovers. 
The girl gazed into the impassioned face beside her and recognized the 
inevitable. The man, with wider sympathy, took all nature into his 
confidence. He looked at the glory of the summer night, on the moon 
riding high above them and her broken reflection in the fountain at 
their feet, and knew the rapture that filled his soul must perforce 
express itself but brokenly in human speech, and so he said only, 

"I love you." 

The girl, as if terrified at her own emotions, first shrank from him 
and then flung herself on his breast. 

The eyes of Pan leered wickedly, and the hair on his goatish thighs 
seemed to undulate in the silver light as if shaken by suppressed laugh- 
ter; but the watcher behind his pedestal stretched out her thin arms 
in ecstasy and clasped the summer air. She raised her eyes as if 
giving thanks for the joy that had come, albeit vicariously, and gath- 
ering up her white dress moved softly away. Swiftly she ran down 
a grassy alley and up the terrace steps until she reached an enclosure 
of tiny flower-beds, banked like little graves, each fragrant with its 
own bloom except one, whose bosom of brown earth was bare of flowers. 

Ophelia Phoenix took from her arm a bag of faded silk and dropped 
it on the mound, and then she counted the flower-beds, noting them on 
her fingers. Perhaps her name and the nature of her sorrow had given 
direction to her dementia, making her identify herself with Hamlet's 
lady-love until she paraphrased her speech. 

61 



62 The Court of Pan 

"There are June roses," she whispered, "that's for iny love; and 
poppies to make me sleep and dream of him; and phlox for his good 
deeds; and mignonette, sweet with his memory. He lacked but one 
thing, the moral sense, and that I mean to sow; perhaps I will 
share it some day with Phoebe's lover ? If he should be without it and 
Mathilda knew, she'd part them!" 

She knelt on the ground and with her delicate fingers scraped fur- 
rows in the soil, then, opening her bag, she scattered her seeds and 
combed the earth over them, smoothing it tenderly. 

"Sunlight and dew and God's good-will," she crooned as if re- 
citing a charm to make them grow. 

The place seemed to hold her spell-bound, but finally she tore herself 
away and returned with furtive steps to the piazza, where Phoebe stood 
waving a silent good-night to her lover as he disappeared behind the 
trees. 

The windows of the drawing-room were open, and sitting by a 
shaded lamp within was an old lady knitting. Her face was both fine 
and harsh, holy yet severe. 

The truants of the garden seemed to shrink from attracting her 
notice. They followed the veranda round the turn of the house before 
they spoke. 

" Don't tell her," whispered the old Ophelia. " She will make you 
give him up." 

Phoebe gave a little cry of dismay. 

"What makes you say such wicked things?" she asked. "Aunt 
Mathilda could not be so cruel." 

" She made me give up mine," Ophelia whimpered. " He came 
courting me by the fountain just as young Eandolph comes courting 
you, and I loved him enough to forgive him anything, but Mathilda 
found out things in his past things we don't talk about, Phoebe 
and she parted us !" She ended in a passion of tears. 

Phoebe put her arms round the sobbing woman. 

"Is he still alive?" she asked. 

"He was drowned," she answered, shivering, "lost with his ship 
one bitter winter night. So cold! All icicles and snow and frozen 
sea-foam, and he went down, down, down. I've been down with him !" 

She shuddered and gasped for breath, as if the weight of water 
crushed her breast. Then suddenly her mood changed. "But I 
brought his spirit back!" she cried, "and I've buried it in my little 
garden on the terrace." 

" Poor Aunt Ophelia," said the girl. " Why did you give him up ?" 

The question seemed to startle the old woman with sudden fear. 
She ran to the edge of the veranda and looked down into the shrub- 



The Court of Pan 63 

beries. She listened to make sure they were alone, and then she sunk 
her voice to a whisper as she told the secret of her doom. 

" Hush," she said, " you must never tell he had no moral sense V 

II. 

THE elder Miss Phoenix was taking gentle exercise in her garden 
before the heat of the day. She bore with exemplary patience the sins 
of her forefathers, made manifest in rheumatic gout, for she limped as 
she walked, and leaned for support on a cane with a crotch. Her 
stately figure gave dignity to her limp, and she carried herself with 
conscious pride. Her gray hair was simply parted under an old- 
fashioned bonnet, a shawl of China crepe concealed her shoulders, and 
her black silk dress swept the velvet of the turf. 

The summer day was perfect the sun's rays affecting that mock- 
modesty we call atmosphere; the grass and trees and flowers radiated 
color as if they gloried to exist. The birds were bathing in the foun- 
tain and the bees sang their sleepy tune. 

Miss Phcenix had a soul to mark the sweetness; it even stirred in 
her a desire for expression. Like most unsympathetic people she was 
sentimental, for sentiment gives play to the softer feelings common to 
austere natures along lines of their choosing, whereas sympathy is 
apt to make fortuitous demands at variance with their moods. 

Miss Phoenix's mood was atune to praise sensuously pure. Tenny- 
son was the poet of her youth; she quoted, and her limp halted the 
lines, 

" The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea." 

Here she emerged from the acacia walk which had suggested the 
lyric, and came upon a blaze of flower-beds surrounding the fountain 
in the Court of Pan. To her right the gardens lay basking in the heat 
of the sun, and down the terrace steps tripped Phoebe with a basket 
of roses held against her hip and a scarlet hibiscus in her blue-black 
hair. She was dusky as a Hindoo, with a clear red color in her lips 
and cheeks, and she moved with supple grace. Her eyes were set far 
apart, soft as a fawn's; her mouth a wide bow, infinitely sweet; her 
teeth milk-white as the acacia blossoms. 

A peacock, disturbed by her passing from his perch on the terrace 
wall, raised a harsh outcry and moved crossly away, and the girl stood 
still and tried to woo him back with blandishments of voice and 
gesture. 

The picture was observed by Miss Phcenix under the edge of her 
parasol, and inspired her to a more passionate choice in her verse, 



64 The Court of Pan 

" Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 

Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun." 

"There's not much of the lily about Phoebe except in the white- 
ness of her soul. God keep her safe from evil I had almost said from 
love." 

This she murmured half aloud, and then caught her breath as if 
something pricked her heart perhaps an electric spark from her own 
youth along the silver wire of memory. 

Whatever of imagination and tenderness survived in Miss Phoenix 
went out to Phoebe, the one bright thing in the dull life of the old 
house, but she did not spoil her with indulgence. She had an admoni- 
tion for the girl even more, a word of blame, though Phoebe's beauty 
vanquished its severity. 

"I have heard rumors that distress me," said Miss Phoenix. "Did 
you meet Hugo Eandolph by accident or appointment last evening in 
the garden? You do not answer? When visitors come here after 
dark by other means than the front door, I consider them intruders. 
You know the parable about the sheep-fold, Phcebe? I also have a 
ewe lamb to guard; let me be sure she is not following the voice of a 
stranger." 

Phoebe had prized her secret per se; its privacy was part of her 
romance; but at the gentleness of this pastoral rebuke her reserve 
melted and she poured out the truth. She threw her flowers on the 
ground and clasped her hands as if she held her emotion between the 
palms. 

"I love him!" she confessed. 

"You love a man you have known only a week! You are mad, 
Phoebe." 

The warning of Ophelia lay heavy on the girl's heart, and her 
voice trembled as she pleaded his cause. 

" Don't part us !" she exclaimed. " It was you who brought us 
together you said he was the son of your oldest friend. Why should 
you doubt him?" 

"I distrust concealment," said Miss Phoenix. 

"But it concerns only ourselves; why should we tell it?" urged 
Phoebe, dimly conscious that she was surrendering something precious. 
For concealment in first love is but another name for modesty; when 
our feelings are in the velvet we shrink from locking them with the 
hard horns of conventionality. 

The elder lady spoke with reproach. 

"It concerns all who love you how you choose your husband. If 
young Eandolph is worthy of you, I shall not try to part you. It is 
you who are unkind in your distrust of me." 



The Court of Pan 65 

"Oh Aunt Mathilda," said the child, throwing her arms round 
her neck, "he is worthy of an angel, let alone a foolish little girl like 
me. He is the very soul of honor, and, indeed, we meant to tell 
sometime, only not quite so soon. Can't you understand ?" 

Miss Phoenix kissed the flushed cheek and said with a tone of 
something like youthful mischief, 

"Here comes your friend Hugo's father, Phoebe." 

A sudden shyness overcame the girl. She picked up her flowers 
and flew down the acacia walk just as a servant guided a dignified 
old gentleman across the court. He had a coronet of silver hair, 
features finely modelled, and his dress, though somewhat obsolete, gave 
distinction to his presence. 

" Mathilda," he said, raising his friend's withered hand to his lips, 
"my boy loves your girl. Will you give her to us?" 

All hardness left the old lady's face at this plain statement. 

"Most willingly," she answered, "provided you'll go bail for his 
being as good a man as his father. We have been friends for fifty 
years, Horatio, and in that time I have never known you guilty of an 
unworthy action or a mean thought. Is Hugo built on the same pat- 
tern? You see, I have lost sight of him for so many years. College 
and travel and money-making, and your avoidance of your country- 
place since your wife's death, have made us strangers." 

"And in spite of my neglect of the country you still think me a 
good man! Upon my word, your views are broadening." His smile, 
while teasing, was very sweet, but Miss Phoenix resented the frivolity. 

"We were speaking of Hugo," she said primly. "I wish to know 
more of his character and life." 

Mr. Randolph repressed an impatient sigh. 

"He has the character of an upright man and a gentleman; as 
to his life, the papers have turned it inside out so completely there 
is nothing more to tell." 

" The papers ?" she repeated with a puzzled look. " What have the 
papers to do with Hugo? He is not in politics." 

"About his divorce," the old man answered wearily. "You surely 
must know the wretched story. His wife and his best friend " 

Miss Phcenix beat the ground with her cane. " His wife !" she 
interrupted. "Your son has a wife and comes here like a thief steal- 
ing my Phoebe's love ? That for his upright character !" and she 
snapped her fingers. "I'm ashamed of you, Horatio." 

"Oh, be reasonable!" he said. "We both supposed you knew the 
story it is public property and I honored you for your kindness 
in receiving Hugo in spite of old-fashioned prejudices. He hasn't a 
wife the courts have set him free. You may search the world before 
you find such another husband for Phoebe!" 

VOL. LXXIV. 3 



66 The Court of Pan 

" Then let her stay unmarried/' said Miss Phoenix, " it is the safer 
portion. If a man of your integrity cannot see the wickedness of 
winning a girl's heart before finding out whether she knew of his 
misfortune, not to say disgrace, morals have come to a low stand- 
ard." 

" There is no disgrace !" thundered Mr. Randolph, thoroughly 
angry. "You are talking wildly, Mathilda. Are you wiser than the 
courts ?" 

"Perhaps," she said obstinately, "but not wiser than the Gospel." 

" Even that is on Hugo's side !" 

" You are mistaken," she urged gently ; " it allows his reasons for 
divorce and condemns remarriage." 

"That is a matter of interpretation, Mathilda, too slender to base 
a persecution upon. You are fanatical on certain subjects. You have 
wrecked Ophelia's life. Spare Phoebe!" 

"And you, Horatio, might have spared me that unjust reproach. 
I saw my duty then, just as I see it now. Character is all that matters 
in the ties of life, and in that finer web of truth which underlies all 
character I find Hugo wanting." 

"Let Phoebe judge for herself," cried Mr. Randolph, as the girl, 
having overcome her shyness, crossed the court towards them. 

Miss Phcenix set her mouth more primly as she watched her niece's 
approach, and answered her companion in a low voice: 

"You cannot for a moment suppose that I shall let a child of that 
age decide such a momentous question and yet I can count upon 
Phoebe's conscience. She has been brought up with a keen sense of 
duty. Right and wrong have no wavering lines in her mind. I 
warn you that she will reject your son with horror, though even if she 
should not it will make no difference." 

"Great Heaven!" exclaimed the old gentleman, losing patience, 
"has sympathy been left out of your composition? Come out of your 
cloistered sanctity, Mathilda, and for a few minutes be a human being. 
Look at old Pagan Pan up there ; he is laughing at you !" 

Here Phoebe reached them and stretched out both hands to Mr. 
Randolph in greeting. 

"My dear child," he said, "your aunt and I are quarrelling most 
cruelly about you and Hugo. He has had sorrows which I hoped you 
had taught him to forget, and now it seems you have never heard of 
them, and it is my hard luck to have to explain. It is a difficult story 
to tell a little girl !" He paused. 

Aunt Ophelia's words "Mathilda found out things in his past 
life things we don't talk about, Phoebe" came hurtling across her 
mind, and her breath came thick and short. 

" Oh ! don't tell me !" she pleaded. " I was so happy." 



The Court of Pan 67 

"A little courage and you shall be happy again," said Mr. Ean- 
dolph, while Miss Phoenix stood listening in scornful aloofness. " Hugo 
thought you knew he had been married, Phcebe." 

"Married!" she gasped. "You mean he has a wife? Oh, no, I 
understand. She is dead. Poor Hugo! But all the same I wish he 
had been all mine." 

"He is all yours, my child. She left him for another, and he is 
now " 

" She is alive !" interrupted Phcebe. " The woman Hugo married 
is alive! What difference does it make what she did she owns him! 
How could he be so cruel when I loved him so ! Tell him I hate him ! 
Tell him never to let me see his face again ! I wish I were dead !" And 
Phcebe leaned her head against the pedestal of Pan and wept in an 
ecstasy of sorrow. 

Miss Phoenix turned triumphantly to Mr. Kandolph. 

"You see!" she said, her clear, incisive tones reaching Phcebe 
above the tempest of her tears. "My niece has not disappointed me. 
She too values truth above happiness, and could not love a man so lack- 
ing in moral sense." 

The words arrested the sobs, and Phcebe stood erect and faced her 
aunt. One hand was pressed against her throat and the other grasped 
her little, limp pocket-handkerchief; her swimming eyes blazed with 
passion. 

"It isn't the moral sense," she avowed. "It's the other 
woman !" 

Mr. Eandolph allowed himself the exultation of a smile, indiscreet 
but pardonable. 

"You may call it 'valuing truth/ Mathilda," he said, "but I call 
it a plain case of jealousy." 

Miss Phoenix regarded her niece with angry contempt, but held her 
peace when she saw Mr. Eandolph was about to speak. It was the 
courtesy of suppressed rage. 

The old gentleman drew Phoebe to him. 

" Dear little girl," he said, " the other woman no longer exists as far 
as Hugo is concerned. She has been married for two years to someone 
else, and my boy is as free legally as he is morally." 

"Are you telling me the truth?" Phcebe cried, and hope sprang 
back into her eyes. " Then why does Aunt Mathilda look so angry ?" 

" At your childishness !" exclaimed Miss Phoenix. " At your failure 
to grasp the lack of principle in his conduct! But whether deceit 
weighs with you or not, you shall be protected from your own folly. 
I forbid you to see him again." 

"Here is a message from him, however," said Mr. Eandolph, offer- 
ing the girl her first love-letter. "When Hugo knew I was coming 
here he charged me to give you this." 



68 The Court of Pan 

Before she could stretch out her hand Miss Phoenix had taken the 
letter and thrown it furiously into the fountain. 

With a cry of dismay Phoebe plunged forward to rescue it, caught 
her foot in a trailing vine and fell, striking her head against the stone 
coping. There she lay, her dark curls mingling with the ivy of the 
fountain's border, her senses dead to all appeal. 

"I hope you are satisfied with your work!" said Mr. Randolph, 
white with anger. 

"And you with yours!" she retorted. 

Still Phoebe lay, quite unconscious. 

"Will you carry her to the house, Horatio?" asked the old lady 
more humbly. 

He lifted her with difficulty and began his short journey to the 
house with laboring breath. For the burdens of the old, whether men- 
tal or physical, strain their hearts to the breaking-point. 

Miss Phoenix limped beside them till they reached the door, and 
then she stood still and pointed to a sofa in the hall. 

"Put her down there, if you please; and mark my words, Hora- 
tio she does not again cross that threshold until she has recovered 
her senses in every interpretation of the term. Say so to your son. 
Let him know from me that further pursuit of Phoebe will be cow- 
ardly." 

Mr. Randolph stooped and kissed Phoebe's little, cold hands. 

"You can count upon my son's behaving like a man of spirit!" 
he said enigmatically, and was gone. 

ni. 

THERE was no occasion to keep Phoebe, however rebellious, behind 
bolts and bars; for many hours she lay on her bed without moving, 
and when at last consciousness returned it came in a flood of pain 
and mental distress that held her prostrate. When hope is crushed 
there is no courage wherewith to fight sickness and sorrow, those twin 
evils who ever stalk hand in hand. 

The old doctor who had welcomed the girl into this world of 
suffering came daily and sat by her bedside. He talked privately to 
her aunt of nervous shock, and a strange sapping of the child's strength, 
and with a glance at Ophelia he murmured something about neurotic 
tendencies. He suggested change of scene as soon as she could be 
moved, and looked inquiringly at Miss Phoenix as one who invites a 
confidence. But that astute lady, who held the key to the enigma, 
kept her own counsel, and Phoebe made no complaint. 

Finally one July day, when the heat was so oppressive that Aunt 
Mathilda relaxed her vigilance and dozed after lunch in her arm- 
chair, Aunt Ophelia stole in to Phoebe and knelt beside her bed. On 



The Court of Pan 69 

the sheet she laid a tender sprig and lifted the girl's thin hand and 
made the fingers trace the line of stalk and leaf. 

"It is growing!" she whispered. 

Phcebe smiled feebly. Whatever of her old happy self was left 
struggled to respond to her younger aunt's demands. 

"When it flowers/' pursued Ophelia, "I'll give it to him, and 
Mathilda will be satisfied, and you happy with your lover, my dear." 

"I have no lover," said Phcebe. "Aunt Mathilda parted us and 
Hugo seems content with her decision. That is the hardest part. At 
first I lay here listening for his footsteps, and if he had come I meant 
to go with him strong or weak, rain or shine, by night or by day I 
should have dragged myself to his arms if I died there; but he never 
came !" 

There were no tears; her tone was monotonous. 

Aunt Ophelia became terribly excited. She heard the nurse ap- 
proaching with Phoebe's tray and knew her seconds there were num- 
bered. Her words tripped each other in her haste to get them said. 

"He did come every day, and Mathilda refused even to tell him 
how you were, and now he asks Doctor Wray instead. Shall I see 
him for you, Phcebe, and tell him that for his sake you mean to live ?" 

The faintest blush overspread the child's cheek, and the whispered 
"Yes" had the ring of life. 

The nurse looked frightened and rather angry. 

"Miss Ophelia," she said, "it is contrary to my orders to allow 
anyone to speak to my patient. I thought Miss Phoenix was here on 
guard." 

But Ophelia, with her hand on her hip, was making little twirling 
steps towards the staircase and never noticed her. In the hall below 
she ran against the Doctor, and astonished him with her announce- 
ment: 

"I've cured Phoebe," she said. And when he went upstairs he 
began to think she had. For the first time in the six weeks of his 
little friend's illness he saw the kindling of hope in her eyes. 

Not that Phoebe took a very comprehensive view of how things had 
bettered. Her brain was too tired to follow any chain of reasoning. 
She didn't concern herself with the ways and means by which her 
promise to get well was to be conveyed to Hugo ; even that vital point, 
disobedience to her aunt's wishes, hardly presented itself to her mind. 
She lay in a state of beatitude because Hugo was true to her, and she 
had only to get well to bless him for his trust. 

Ophelia went and came as seemed good to her roving fancy, and 
that same afternoon met young Eandolph returning from his daily 
visit to Doctor Wray. She gave her message with a simplicity that 
carried conviction to his mind, and received one for Phcebe in return. 



70 The Court of Pan 

" Tell her," said Hugo, " that I have great news. That I am going 
on a long journey to verify it. That on the tenth of September, please 
God, I'll come to claim her." 

Miss Ophelia Phoenix had dressed with care for this encounter. One 
gray curl strayed over her shoulder with coquettish freedom; her 
wide-brimmed hat was wreathed with water lilies, her muslin dress 
of katydid green piqued the withered shades of her white-rose com- 
plexion to even paler tints. Her slim, high-bred hands were protected 
by white gloves, and she carried a scarlet parasol. 

"That's a heart of gold in the motley of the parrot," thought 
Hugo, standing uncovered in the sun as he watched her depart. 

There was not much of the hero in Kandolph's appearance; his 
unhappiness had not plucked at his necktie, nor rumpled the sleek 
comeliness of his head. He looked the well-dressed, well-groomed young 
man of the upper classes, with his father's handsome features added to an 
athletic figure. A physiognomist might have guessed idealism in the 
far-away expression of his eyes, but even idealists are open to the sting 
of their mistakes. He had once loved a creature non-existent save in 
his fancy, and had found her wanton; now he loved Phoebe with the 
stored-up poetry of his life. 

He was never violent in his movements; when Ophelia had dis- 
appeared down a side lane that led somewhat deviously to the old 
house, Hugo sauntered homeward, turning over in his mind his little 
lady's message, picturing her helpless sweetness as she lay thinking 
of him, and, with the votive impulse that ever springs from a lifted 
dread, resolved to make himself worthier of her love. 

IV. 

THERE are those who tell less than the truth and we call them 
reticent; and those who tell more, and we call them imaginative 
not without a shrug to mark the sarcasm; and lastly there are those 
who deviate so boldly from accepted standards that we tear off the 
cloak of hyperbole and call them plain liars. 

Phoebe had been brought up in a very Palace of Truth, but it never 
occurred to her to betray the part Aunt Ophelia had taken in her 
revival from despair; on the other hand, she felt bound to make clear 
her own intentions as soon as returning health gave her courage to 
do so. When Aunt Mathilda paid her customary visit to her bedside 
one morning, she found her niece waiting to receive her with shining 
eyes, a heightened color, and all the indications of nervous effort. 

Phosbe asked the nurse to leave them, and said simply, 

" Aunt Mathilda, I think you ought to know that when Hugo comes 
for me I am going with him." 

An awful fear clutched the old woman's heart; not as to what 



The Court of Pan 71 

Phoebe would do, that she felt safe in her control, but lest, like 
Ophelia, her mind had given way under the strain of disappointed 
love. 

Miss Phoenix showed the white feather by changing the subject. 

"We will not discuss the question at present," she said. "Let me 
peel this peach for your breakfast." 

" As you like," the girl responded to both propositions, " but please 
understand that I have not given up, that I love him more than my 
life, and I mean to marry him whenever he asks me." 

Miss Phoenix put down the peach and left the room, and the sub- 
ject was never broached again during Phoebe's convalescence. 

By September they had ceased to think of her as an invalid. Her 
feet danced as lightly and her spirits soared as high as before Aunt 
Mathilda's bolt had fallen that June day, and yet she was changed. 
In appearance she was a little thinner; perhaps her cheeks bore more 
of the wild-rose and less of the damask, and her pretty brownness had 
bleached to ivory, but the real difference lay deeper. Her happiness 
was the joy of the woman, not the gayety of the child. If Hugo's 
love had given her a conscious heart, his absence had illumined it with 
fires of pain. 

And so the tenth of September came. 

At dawn Ophelia glided into Phoebe's room and shook her shoulder. 

" Hugo is back," she said softly, " and he sends you these," and 
she threw round the girl's neck a chain of pearls and diamonds and 
clasped on her arms the same shining fetters. 

Phoebe rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes and kissed her chains. 

"At sunrise he will be waiting for you by the copper beech. Will 
you go with him, Phcebe?" 

Ophelia's voice shook with the agitation of the impending decision 
the question that dates back to the days of Eebekah, the daughter of 
Milcah. 

"I will go!" Phoebe answered with the same Biblical brevity. 

She stood before her aunt like some tall, swaying flower, with the 
dewdrops glistening in the gray light of the morning, and then turned 
away to prepare to meet her lover. 

Nobody but Pan saw their meeting, and the ways of lovers held no 
surprises to one whose haunts had been in Arcady. Indeed, Hugo, 
raising his cheek from Phoebe's curly head, caught the expression of 
the old fellow's face in the level rays of the sun and declared he looked 
benignant. 

"What was your great news?" asked Phoebe, by no means the first 
of her sex willing to sacrifice the honied moments of love to the sting 
of curiosity. 



72 The Court of Pan 

Hugo's lips tightened, and he put the girl from him with a short, 
defiant laugh while he said, 

" Only that I am a widower the woman whose existence wounded 
you is dead." 

" I'm glad I" cried Phoebe. " Even if she didn't want to die, I can't 
be sorry." 

"Be sorry for human laws that make death their only appeal," he 
answered sadly, and then added with sarcasm, " Will Miss Phoenix 
think better of me for this chance turn of the wheel?" 
The question roused the honesty in Phoebe's nature. 
"We must tell her all," she said, and drew her lover towards the 
house. 

And thus it happed that Miss Phoenix, hobbling down the stairs 
to breakfast, met Hugo and Phcebe face to face in the hall. 
Hugo stood towering over her. 
"I have come for Phcebe, Miss Phcenix," he began, "with your 

consent, I hope, because " 

"Because," she interrupted with passion, "you mean to take her 
with or without it." 

"I was going to say because I am free, from your standpoint, to 
marry her. The woman who was once my wife is dead." 

" And this makes you a worthy husband for Phcebe ?" Miss Phcenix 
sneered. 

" I should be glad if you could think so," he answered humbly. 
"It removes my objection to the marriage, but not to the bride- 
groom," said Miss Phcenix with rancor. "You would have stolen my 
girl whether your wife lived or died. In my eyes you have been guilty 
of a crime." 

Phcebe threw her arms round her aunt's neck and stopped her 
words with a kiss. 

" Oh, don't be so unkind," she begged. " You know in your heart 
Hugo isn't wicked. This is my wedding-day, Aunt Mathilda : go with 
me to church and give me your blessing." 

"Never!" cried the old woman in a burst of anger that was close 
to tears. 

At that moment quick steps same hurrying across the piazza, and 
Ophelia, with her arms full of lavender, rushed into the hall and flung 
her flowers at Hugo's feet. 

"The moral sense!" she exclaimed. "At last it has blossomed 
and I give it all to you." 

And then, catching sight of her sister's stern face, her triumphant 
mood vanished, and she sank to the floor in an agony of fear. 

"Oh! be pitiful to these poor children, Mathilda," she begged. 
" Don't make them suffer as I have done. Give me Phoebe's happiness 



The Maid of Sparta 73 

instead of my own. There are tears in your eyes. You mean to for- 
give. God bless you!" 

Poor Miss Phoenix was sobbing. 

"Fm an old woman," she faltered, "and you are all against me 
Ophelia and Horatio and even Phoebe. I yield, Hugo heart-strings 
are not of iron. Oh, don't thank me!" she added as the young man 
took her hand. "Give all your gratitude to Ophelia, who has carried 
through her shattered life the sympathy that comes from love." 



THE MAID OF SPARTA 

BY ALOYSIUS COLL 

OH, come to me when the Persian blood 
Is red on thy father's sword 
And if thy scars be upon thy breast, 
I will give my wedding word. 

Oh, come to me when the battle shout 
Has anointed the lips of thy vow 

And I will bind thy wounds with oil, 
And bathe thy matted brow. 

Oh, come to me when the heart of the foe 
Has dulled the barb of thy spear 

And if thy shield be upon thy arm, 
I will hear thee I will hear. 

Come when thy bone and sinew ache 
From the marches many and long 

And I will rest thee in my arms, 
With a love both true and strong. 

Come to me when thine eyes are dim 
With the brine of the galley fight 

And I will unbind my silken hair, 
And wash them clear and bright. 

Or come to me, undaunted, dead, 

Borne back from the front of the field 

And I will pledge eternal love 
With the garlands on thy shield ! 



MOSES, JR. 



By Ella Middleton Tybout 

Author of "Ananias of Poketown," "A Very Wise Virgin" etc. 



A~ ONZO shifted the baby to the other shoulder and sighed wearily. 
Sometimes the realities of life oppress us strangely. 
" Yo' ugly, yowlin', black niggah !" he said fiercely, address- 
ing his unconscious burden. 

Mary Lizzie peered around the corner of the house and grinned 
derisively. It was solely the result of good management on her part 
that the baby had been thrust upon Alonzo instead of herself when 
their mother went to her work, and she exulted accordingly. 

"Take good cyah o' de baby, 'Lonzy," she said officiously; " don' 
let nobody git Fil Mose." 

" Wunst I gits shed o' him," returned Alonzo grimly, " Fs gwine 
tuh pull yo' wool fuh yo', dat's whut Fs gwine tuh do." 

Mary Lizzie stood upon one bare black leg like a reflective young 
stork as she rubbed it affectionately with the sole of the other foot. 

-^" 'Lonzy," she remarked suddenly, " 'membah dat king Miss Hattie 
done tole us 'bout las' Sunday." 

" Whut king ?" asked Alonzo indifferently. 

" De one whut tuck en kill de fus' bawns," returned Mary Lizzie. 

" He kilt de babies, dat's whut he done," said Alonzo with a sudden 
glimmer of interest. " I reckon yo' means Mistah Ferro." 

Mary Lizzie nodded. 

" Ef dey hadn' put 1'il ole Moses out tuh sea, he'd done been kilt 
too," she said after a moment's silence. 

Moses of the twentieth century set up a mighty shout, and it took 
some minutes for his brother to pacify him. 

" 'Tain't no use wishin'," said Alonzo gloomily when peace was 
restored, " Mistah Ferro am daid an' gone. Dem wuz good ole days." 

Mary Lizzie came closer. 

"De stujents an' de night-doctahs," she whispered apprehensively, 
" dey up an' takes babies f'om dey cradles an' bodies f'om dey graves. 
Mammy done say so." 

"Mistah Ferro mus' a-been a night-doctah ez well ez a king," ob- 
served Alonzo, adding after a moment's thought, " Mistah Raymon' up 
tuh de house am a stujent." 



Moses, Jr. 75 

"Reckon he mought like tub git holt o' Mose," responded Mary 
Lizzie, adding unctuously, " dey b'iles de babies in vinegah an' puts 
'em away in glass jabs, same ez pickles." 

" How'd yo' like tub be b'iled in vinegah ?" inquired Alonzo of his 
infant brother, with a slight shake. 

" 'Lonzy," said Mary Lizzie irrelevantly, " dey's a place down by 
de rivah wid a big tent, an' annymiles runnin' roun' a ring, an' yo' kin 
ride on 'em. Dey's a band whut plays awful loud all de time, an' 
peanuts an' sich." 

" Eeal annymiles ?" said Alonzo, his eyes growing large. 

Mary Lizzie nodded emphatically. Her knowledge of merry-go- 
rounds was limited, but she was equal to the occasion. 

" I's gwine," she remarked tersely. 

" Me too," said Alonzo with equal firmness. 

They exchanged glances of mutual understanding. 

" I'd hate tub see de stujents git 1'il Mose," said Mary Lizzie after 
a long pause. 

" Whut yo' say dey done tub hide ole Moses f 'om Mistah Ferro ?" 
inquired Alonzo with interest, and Mary Lizzie repeated the story of 
the launching of Moses and his rescue by Pharaoh's daughter to the 
best of her ability. 

" Does yo' reckon he gwine tub fit in a woshtub ?" said Alonzo after 
pondering deeply; and Mary Lizzie approved the suggestion. 

A washtub was accordingly produced and a quilt placed inside it; 
the baby was then introduced to his new quarters, protesting vigorously. 

" He legs do crumple up," said Mary Lizzie disgustedly, after vainly 
trying to induce her brother to lie out straight. 

" Let 'em crumple," returned Alonzo indifferently, " an' he'p me 
tote him tub de crick." 

But Mary Lizzie did not respond; womanlike, after suggesting the 
plan she flunked its execution. 

" Whut yo' reckon Mammy gwine tub say ?" she asked nervously. 

" Does yo' want yo' 1'il brothah b'iled in vinegah ?" demanded 
Alonzo fiercely. " Mammy done tole me tub take cyah o' dis chile an' 
I's gwine tub do hit. Take holt o' de han'le o' de tub." 

" S'pos'n dey don' happen tub be no Ferro's dawtah tub ketch holt 
an' pull him out," suggested Mary Lizzie after they had trudged some 
distance in silence, " whut Mose gwine tub do 'bout hit ?" 

" Well," returned Alonzo argumentatively, " ain' we got tub up 
an' hide him f'om de stujents somehow?" 

" Miss Hattie say," continued Mary Lizzie, endeavoring to appease 
her accusing conscience, " dat ole Moses done been kilt sho' ef dey 
hadn' tuck an' hid him." 

" Miss Hattie allus know whut she talkin' 'bout," said Alonzo 'con- 



76 Moses, Jr. 

clusively, adding after a moment's thought, " she gwine tuh be awful 
pleased 'caze we 'membahs whut she say in Sunday-school/' 

And Mary Lizzie smiled a long, slow smile. 

The edge of the creek was reached at last, and they paused to rest. 
Soothed by the motion of his improvised cradle as it swung along, the 
baby had fallen asleep, and therefore failed to object as Alonzo waded 
out into the stream, pushing the tub before him. Mary Lizzie offered 
a last remonstrance. 

"'Lonzy," she cried suddenly, "whut yo' gwine tuh do 'bout de 
bull?" 

" De whut ?" asked Alonzo, astonished. 

" De bull whut rushes," returned Mary Lizzie firmly. " Miss Hattie 
done make 'speshul mention 'bout him. Keckon hit wuh 'caze o' de 
bull rushes dat Mistah Ferro's dawtah happen tuh light on de aidge o' 
de watah; spec's he tuck an' butt huh. Dey ain' gwine tuh be nobody 
haul 1'il Mose out nohow twell de bull rushes." 

" Mistah Brown's ole raid bull wid de curly forrid am down hyah 
by de crick," said Alonzo, pushing vigorously; "reckon I kin make 
him rush mighty lively wunst I gits Mose tuh floatin'. Gimme dat 
long stick so's I kin push him out tuh de middle." 

The tub finally reached the centre of the stream, and unconscious 
Moses floated peacefully along with the current, oblivious of his sur- 
roundings. 

Mr. Brown's red bull was quietly cropping the tender young grass 
in his pasture bordering the creek. He felt at peace with the world in 
general, and only the large brass ring which adorned his nose suggested 
what he could do if he felt so inclined. Far away on the very edge of 
the water a huge yellow umbrella sheltered a man and an easel; it 
also shaded a girl in a white gown. The bull had glanced in that 
direction once or twice, but the umbrella did not interest him; he 
supposed it merely a new species of mushroom. 

A shower of small stones and bits of earth suddenly descended upon 
his back, and he switched his tail impatiently as he grazed ; the shower 
increased, and he raised his head deliberately. Dancing excitedly 
about him, now on this side, now on that, was a small black figure 
emitting shrill cries and waving a tattered straw hat in a most exas- 
perating manner; perched on the fence, in readiness for instant flight 
in either direction, was a second dusky atom intent on continuing the 
fusillade from the rear. The bull was annoyed, and said so em- 
phatically. 

A large clod of earth struck him directly between the eyes, and he 
charged impatiently at his tormentor, who promptly vanished from the 
horizon. There was nothing to conceal him, so far as the bull could 



Moses, Jr. 77 

detect, but the yellow umbrella on the edge of the creek, so he made 
for it at full speed, with lowered head and elevated tail. 

" There is nothing so beautiful as Nature," said the artist under the 
umbrella, addressing the girl in the white gown. 

The girl, known in Poketown as " Miss Hattie," acquiesced. 

" So quiet," he continued, " so peaceful. This small stream now, 
with cattle browsing so happily upon its banks and that quaint little 
boat in the distance, is a picture in itself." 

" That's not a boat," said Miss Hattie quietly, " it's a tub." 

"I always feel elevated and strengthened," he continued, disre- 
garding her remark, " after a morning spent in close communion with 
Nature. To the educated eye there is so much to admire in the smallest 
leaf. Even the little clouds " 

He paused abruptly. 

"Well," said Miss Hattie, "what of the little clouds?" 

" I thought I heard something. As I was saying, even the little 
clouds have a significance of their own. In the water beside us I 
find " 

There was a sudden thunder of hoofs, accompanied by an angry 
bellow; something crashed through the yellow umbrella and raised 
both artist and easel high in the air. They fell with a mighty splash 
into the creek, and Miss Hattie shrank back terrified as Mr. Brown's red 
bull rushed past without seeing her and jumped the fence into the 
next field. 

Gasping and spluttering, the artist rose to the surface and caught 
blindly at the first object which presented itself. It proved to be the 
edge of the tub in which Moses, Jr., pursued the even tenor of his way 
down the creek, and which naturally capsized immediately. Down 
went the unlucky artist a second time, and when he again appeared he 
mechanically clasped beneath his arm a small, soft bundle which 
squirmed unpleasantly. As Miss Hattie timidly peered around the 
trunk of a large tree, whither she had fled for shelter, the head and 
shoulders of her companion arose over the edge of the bank. He pre- 
sented a very melancholy spectacle as he crawled slowly to terra firma 
with water dripping from his garments, his hair, and even from his 
eminently correct Van Dyke beard. Advancing with as much dignity 
as he could command, he laid his burden at her feet, while Moses, 
having recovered his breath, set up a sudden howl of indignation at the 
abrupt termination of his nap. 

" It's a baby," said Miss Hattie slowly, " a colored baby. Oh 
dear me." 

The corners of her mouth twitched convulsively, and after striving 
vainly at self-control, she finally laughed frankly and unrestrainedly 
in opposition to the wails of the outraged Moses, 



78 Moses, Jr. 

"I am glad you think it funny/' said the artist stiffly as he en- 
deavored to dry his face with his soaking handkerchief. 

Miss Hattie assumed a sympathetic expression and approached the 
baby curiously. 

" Why, it's Moses/' she exclaimed, astonished " little Moses. We 
must take him home, of course." 

She looked at her own fresh, spotless costume, and then at the 
drenched infant. 

" If I go ahead and show the way," she insinuated, " you will carry 
him, won't you?" 

" Not I," he returned briefly. 

" But," she argued, " think of my gown. You are already wet, you 
know, and no one will see us if we go through the fields. Would you 
leave a little, helpless child at the mercy of a raging bull?" 

" I see no reason to suppose that the the animal will return," re- 
sponded the artist indifferently. " The child might repose in safety 
behind this bush and we could notify its parents where it is." 

" You have a hard, cruel nature," said Miss Hattie severely. " I 
always suspected it. Unless you do me this slight favor (the first I 
have ever asked of you), I" she paused to consider "I will never 
speak to you again." 

" I will do it," said the artist slowly, " on condition that you grant 
me a favor in return when I ask it." 

He approached the suffering Moses and picked him up by the middle 
of his garments, as one would lift a kitten by the skin of its neck. 

" Not that way," said Miss Hattie, hastily readjusting Moses, " you 
will kill the child. Don't you know how to hold a baby? Crook out 
your arm so." 

" I do not wish the little insect so close to me," he remonstrated, 
looking at his burden with disgust in every feature. 

" Now," said Miss Hattie, starting briskly forward, " I'll go ahead 
and show the way. You needn't walk too close; I want to keep my 
dress clean. Hurry, please; he is so awfully wet I'm afraid he will 
take cold." 

" I am wet also," said her companion, voicing a self-evident fact. 

" Yes," she returned callously, " but you're a man, and you're going 
to exercise. Come on now. Be quick!" 

The artist obediently moved forward like an automaton, and Moses, 
fearful of further disasters, squared his mouth for a last heart-rending 
howl. Miss Hattie looked over her shoulder and the glance was too 
much for her; she laughed until her strength deserted her, then sat 
down upon the ground and laughed again. 

"I am glad I amuse you/' said the a.rtist bitterly, indignation in 
every line of his figure. 



Moses, Jr. 79 

" I'm not amused/' said Miss Hattie hastily. 

" Neither am I" he returned briefly as Moses fastened both his 
little, monkey-like hands in the Van Dyke beard so conveniently near 
and clung on tenaciously, his head flung well back that he might shriek 
the louder. 

" Pray, laugh," said the artist politely, vainly trying to disentangle 
his beard from the clutch of Moses ; " don't stop on my account." 

" I'm not laughing," replied Miss Hattie in choked accents. " I 
never was more serious in my life." 

To prove this assertion she immediately gave way to a fresh par- 
oxysm of mirth. 

" I beg your pardon," she gasped, " but I do wish you could see 
yourself. Oh dear me ! I'm sorry, but I can't help it." 

And when Miss Hattie laughed the world laughed with her, whether 
it knew the joke or not. 

Alonzo and Mary Lizzie from their ambush behind the fence watched 
the progress of the bull towards the yellow umbrella, and the subse- 
quent demolition of the latter, with an unholy pleasure. As Miss 
Hattie fled to the protecting tree Mary Lizzie sighted the flutter of her 
white gown, 

" Look, 'Lonzy," she exclaimed, " yondah's Ferro's dawtah tuh f eesh 
out Fil Mose. She done come up outen de groun' when de bull tuck 
an' rushed." 

But Alonzo did not reply immediately. He could see the head and 
shoulders of a man rising over the bank and he felt apprehensive. The 
man seemed to carry a bundle. 

" Hide yo'se'f," he said suddenly, drawing his sister behind the 
post as a familiar wail sounded faintly in the distance. The children 
looked at each other with large, round eyes. 

" De night-doctah done got 1'il Mose," whispered Alonzo ; " I seen 
him come outen de watah." 

" Eeckon hit mought a-been Ferro's dawtah," suggested Mary Lizzie 
hopefully. 

" Do Ferro's dawtah wa-ar a beard and w'ite duck pants ?" demanded 
Alonzo in a withering manner, and Mary Lizzie subsided. 

The cries of Moses became louder and more imperative. 

" Gittin' him ready fuh de vinegah," muttered Alonzo uneasily. 
" Whut Mammy gwine tuh say ?" 

" Yo' done it," vociferated Mary Lizzie shrilly, " yo' done it. Yo' 
tuck an' put him in de tub yo'se'f. Yo' done it!" 

" Shet yo' noise !" said Alonzo fiercely. " Does yo' want de night- 
doctah tuh git yo' ?" 

" De f us' bawns an' de boy babies am whut Mistah Ferro an' dera 



80 Moses, Jr. 

othah ole kings tuck an' kilt/' returned Mary Lizzie comfortably ; " de 
stujents don' hone fun me nohow. I's a female, I is." 

" Whut dat ?" inquired Alonzo, a cold chill creeping up his spine at 
the fate implied for his unlucky sex, " whut dat ?" 

"Dunno," replied Mary Lizzie briefly, "but I's one of 'em; Miss 
Hattie done say so. An' I's pow'ful pleased I is," she added emphat- 
ically. 

" Le's go home," suggested Alonzo, the prospective expedition to 
the merry-go-round forgotten entirely; and they started to retrace 
their steps, leaving their infant brother to his fate meanwhile. 

Miss Hattie, walking briskly across the field some distance ahead 
of her companion, perceived the two small figures headed in the same 
direction, but keeping close to the shadow of the hedge. She stopped 
and pointed them out to him, remarking casually that they were rela- 
tives of Moses, and if their attention could be attracted a transfer 
might be effected. 

" Suppose you shout," she suggested, " and if they don't hear, you 
might run and overtake them." 

Alonzo and Mary Lizzie, trudging wearily along, lapsed into crim- 
inations and recriminations, after the manner of older criminals when 
their sin is about to find them out. 

"Yo' hadn' ought tuh speechify 'bout Ferro's dawtah an' sich," 
said Alonzo bitterly ; " allus stickin' in yo' mouf somehow." 

Mary Lizzie clung to her monotonous recitative. 

" Yo' done it," she repeated in sing-song accents, " yo' done it." 

"'Tain't so nohow," repudiated Alonzo forcefully. 

" Yo' done it," chanted Mary Lizzie again. " Mammy tole yo' tuh 
take cyah o' de baby. Yo' done it. I's gwine tuh tell huh how yo' up 
an' made me tote de tub. Yo' done it; yo' knows yo' done it." 

" I knows I's gwine tuh pull yo' wool clean out," returned Alonzo 
viciously. " I ain' f uhgot dat." 

" Yo' done it," began Mary Lizzie for the third time, falling a few 
steps in the rear of her brother, " yo " 

A faint shout was wafted over the fields ; Alonzo turned and looked 
in its direction. 

"De night-doctah !" he gasped. 

" De corpse o' po' 1'il Mose," ejaculated Mary Lizzie as the body 
of her brother swung into view. 

" Run !" cried Alonzo, " he's gwine tuh git us." 

And the children flew blindly in different directions as the artist, 
bent on relinquishing Moses, started towards them on the double 
quick. 

The course of Mary Lizzie led directly into a thicket of blackberry- 



Moses, Jr. 81 

bushes, into which she plunged head first, and lay panting on the 
ground firmly held by thorns. Her pursuer saw a bare brown leg 
waving uncertainly about, and promptly clutched the ankle-bone. Mary 
Lizzie groaned aloud. 

"Lemme go!" she shrieked, endeavoring to liberate herself by a 
series of desperate kicks, " lemme go I" 

" Come out of there, you little devil," said the artist between his 
teeth, pulling with all his strength. 

" Leggo meh laig," wailed Mary Lizzie, "yo' don' want me. Leggo 
meh laig. I ain' no fus' bawn; I ain' no male chile. Leggo meh 
laig." 

The opportune arrival of Miss Hattie probably prevented bloodshed 
on the part of the artist, and, explanations having ensued, Mary Lizzie 
departed for her home, her back bent under the weight of Moses, a 
burden for once welcome to his sister. 

"You see," said Miss Hattie, "they thought you were a medical 
student and ran away from you. I don't just understand myself how 
the baby got into the tub and out on the creek, but I thought it best 
not to ask many questions." 

The artist muttered something about infernal nuisances. 

"I think it was so brave in you," she continued, regarding him 
through her lashes with an admiring expression, "to rescue the poor 
little child. But for you he would have been drowned. It was posi- 
tively chivalric, it was indeed, for you might have thought only of your- 
self, you know." 

And the artist said it was nothing, after all. 

Mary Lizzie was seated on the doorstep ostentatiously dandling 
Moses when her mother returned. She told that indignant lady that 
Alonzo having deserted his charge, she had gladly taken the best of 
care of him all day. Consequently, Alonzo upon his return found his 
welcome unusually warm and himself deprived of the various tidbits 
his mother had managed to collect during her day's work and secrete 
about her person. He watched Mary Lizzie slowly disposing of a sec- 
tion of jam tart with bitterness swelling in his bosom. 

" Awful good tahts, dem wuz," said Mary Lizzie complacently as the 
last morsel vanished. 

Alonzo glanced furtively around. They were alone; his hour had 
come. He advanced upon his sister from the rear and fastened both 
hands in her hair. 

" I done tole yo' I's gwine tuh pull yo' wool," he said between his 
teeth ; " now I's gwine tuh do it." 

And he took a good, firm grip and pulled mightily. 



"BECAUSE OF NELLIE" 

By Bertha H. Lippincott 

Author of ' ' Chevrons' ' 



{HAD not seen Helen Lane or, rather, Helen Blakeley since 
she and Ned Blakeley, my successful rival, had driven off to- 
gether, amid a whirl of rice, old slippers, and good wishes, to 
the depot, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, along with the rest 
of the wedding party, with rather a lonely feeling about the heart, 
and a sense of resentment, too, that a decidedly average young man, 
with even less than the average prospects of advancement in the 
world, should have cut me out so easily with the only girl I had ever 
succeeded in falling in love with; and the fact that my successful 
rival was not even a fellow-townsman, but a comparative stranger 
from Philadelphia, only added to my discomfiture. 

All this was six or seven years ago, and now Helen was a widow, 
and I though I was quite reconciled to my fate was still a bach- 
elor; but I confess it was not without a little quickening of the pulse 
that I received this note in Helen's once familiar handwriting the 
very day of my arrival in Philadelphia, whither, for the first time, my 
profession chanced to call me. It ran: 

" MY DEAR MB. SHELDON : I heard last night that you are 
to be in this city for a couple of days, and though I quite 
understand it is business that brings you within our gates, 
I hope you will not fail to give an old friend the pleasure 
of seeing you again, and of hearing about the ' folks at 
home.' Can you not dine with me and my mother-in-law 
to-night at seven, quite informally? 

" Hoping surely to see you, believe me to be, as ever, 
" Sincerely Yours, 

" HELEN L. BLAKELEY." 

My time in Philadelphia was short and my business engagements 
really pressing, but I could not resist the desire to see Helen again, 
and perhaps there was an equal, if less worthy, motive of curiosity to 
see what sort of matron my once ethereal and sprightly little lady 
had become in her Philadelphia surroundings, so I hastily penned 
an acceptance to her invitation and dropped it in the letter-box on my 
way down-town. 

It was after half-past six when I got back to my hotel, which was 

82 



" Because of Nellie" 83 

some blocks from the Blakeleys' house, so my toilet was made at 
breakneck speed. At last I was ready, with five minutes to spare 
five minutes to make five blocks, in full dress, on a warm April 
evening! I snatched up my hat and gloves, and had started for the 
elevator when I was struck with a doubt as to Helen's address. It 
was Spruce Street, I knew, but was it 1743 or 1943 ? I dashed back 
to my room, jerked out all the bureau drawers, and rummaged fran- 
tically through my valise, and then discovered Helen's letter lying 
in plain view and a veritable sea of soapy water! upon the corner 
of the washstand. In my hasty ablutions I had indiscriminately 
sprinkled all things within range: consequently the number of the 
Blakeley residence was merged into one hopeless blot. 

With a low-toned comment, which I trust the Eecording Angel 
failed to record, I once more made for the elevator, determined to 
try 1743 simply because it was the nearer by two blocks. But doubts 
began to assail me when 1743 loomed up before me, giving every 
evidence of "expecting company." The shutters of the lower win- 
dows were closed, but a blaze of light shone through the slats, and 
before I could press the bell the door was opened by a most impressive 
liveried butler. If this were Helen's way of having an old friend 
"informally to dinner," I wondered how she would plan to dine the 
President! The house too was far larger and handsomer than I had 
expected to find Helen's home ; and as I mounted to the " second- 
story back," as directed, to leave my coat and hat, I began to think 
that we had all underestimated Helen's " match" at the time of the 
marriage. There were no other guests in the " second-story back," but 
I descended to the lower floor again with a growing sense that I 
should have gone to .7943. However, all possibility of retreat was 
cut off by Fate in the person of the impressive butler, who con- 
fronted me at the foot of the stairs and announced that Miss Brooke 
was in the library, and that Mr. Shelton was to "walk right in;" 
so, wondering who Miss Brooke might be, I entered. 

It was a large, richly furnished room, and at the farther end of 
it a young girl in evening dress was bending over a bowl of huge red 
roses. She turned quickly as I entered, and then came forward, 
smiling, still holding one of the long-stemmed beauties in one glove- 
less hand, while she offered me the other with a charming mixture of 
shyness and frank cordiality. 

" I am so glad to see you at last," she told ^ne, " for I have heard 
so much about you ! But isn't it too bad ?" she added, " Cousin Nellie 
is laid up with the grippe and cannot come to-night, so we must just 
introduce ourselves. I am Bleanore Brooke." 

And Eleanore Brooke raised the loveliest of blue eyes to mine, as 
if there were nothing more to be said. 



84 " Because of Nellie" 

I bowed and expressed my pleasure at meeting Miss Brooke under 
any circumstances in the meantime wondering how in the world 
Helen could have contracted the grippe since the night before, when 
she had written her note of invitation, and what Miss Brooke meant 
by saying she was too ill to "come." 

"Doesn't your cousin live here?" I ventured to ask. 

" Why, no," my companion replied. " This is Aunt Fanny's house. 
Didn't Nellie tell you the dinner was to be here? because her apart- 
ment is so small, you know." 

This straightened things out a little, so I breathed more freely, 
though I could not exactly place " Aunt Fanny." Probably a relative 
of the Blakeleys' whom I had met at the wedding and forgotten. I 
wondered if I had seen Miss Brooke at the wedding also; but she 
must have been only a school-girl at that time, for she could not 
be much over twenty now. 

Miss Brooke had turned again to her bowl of roses, and by a few 
deft turns and twists was working wonders with their arrangement. 

" Servants never know how to fix flowers," she explained, with a 
friendly little smile over her shoulder. 

" I suppose you think I ought to apologize for not having this all 
done and my gloves on before you came," she continued; "but. 
you see, you were rather er punctual for an eight o'clock dinner, 
you know; so I didn't really expect to be caught." 

She laughed, and drawing a filmy bit of a handkerchief from her 
bosom, daintily dried her finger-tips upon it; and then, seating her- 
self upon a nearby sofa, and drawing aside her skirts to make room 
for me beside her, she proceeded to draw on a pair of long white 
gloves. I dropped into the seat with a sensation something similar, 
I should think, to what one must feel upon gaining a cheerful fire- 
side after a long tramp through the snow. What if I had been stupid 
enough to misread Helen's note, and nearly break my neck in my 
consequently unnecessary haste? I was being amply repaid not only 
for my trouble, but even for Helen's absence. Indeed, I would not 
have cared if the whole dinner-party had suddenly developed the 
grippe and stayed away so long as Miss Brooke continued to look 
at me as she was looking at the present moment. 

" I'm so glad you did come early," she told me after a few minutes 
of sprightly chat, "because we can have a chance to get acquainted 
before the others come. Of course, I have heard a lot about you, not 
only from Nellie," this with an arch glance I failed to understand, 
"but also from your brother. Perhaps -have you heard a little 
about me too? I hope so, really, for otherwise we are starting out 
with too great an advantage on my side!" 

Here was a pretty pickle! for the advantages lay altogether with 



. " Because of Nellie" 85 

Miss Brooke. When, where, and how could my grave and reverend 
brother have discovered this charming little lady, and why on earth 
had he never told us about her? But perhaps it was not Dick per- 
haps it was the Kid. 

" Have you met both my brothers ?" I hazarded, and Miss Brooke 
looked surprised. 

"Why, I didn't know there were three of you!" she returned. 
"But it was the minister-brother. You are not the least bit like 
him," she ran on, " but I suppose there would be a difference between 
a minister and a soldier." 

" Soldier ?" I repeated weakly. 

" Yes I" she cried, while her eyes sparkled with genuine enthu- 
siasm, " and I think yours is the finest profession in all the world ! 
I have heard of you your bravery under fire that time and I think 
it was simply splendid! You need not try to deny it," this when I 
raised a hand in protest, " for your fame has preceded you, you see." 
And Miss Brooke gave me a look that made me feel queer all over. 

My fame had preceded me? Surely it had and by so far that 
I saw no hope of my ever catching up to it! True, I held a com- 
mission in the National Guard of my State; and once I had faced 
and without flinching a stone-throwing mob during a big strike in 
the coal region; but how and why Dick, or even Helen, should have 
made of me a hero with a war record was more than I could com- 
prehend. It was a new experience to be thus worshipped by a lovely 
woman; and even though I knew the pedestal on which she had placed 
me was so unstable that it must soon let me fall with a crash to earth, 
I felt the position vastly agreeable, and I found myself thinking that 
it might be worth while to spend the coming years in building for 
myself another and firmer foundation, and when I had fairly climbed 
to the top of it, to come back and ask this little lady to mount beside 
me, and share the honorable career of which she had been the uncon- 
scious inspiration. 

Something of my thoughts must have shown in my eyes, for Miss 
Brooke, meeting my gaze, colored, and asked me rather abruptly if 
I intended going to the Catskills this summer. 

"Are you going?" I asked involuntarily. 

" Nellie is going," replied Miss Brooke. " That should be enough 
for you." 

"But it isn't," I declared; and my little lady drew herself up 
severely. 

" I fancy you would not care to have Nellie hear you say that," 
she remarked coldly. 

"And I fancy it would not disturb her very much if she did as 
it certainly would not worry me!" I laughed, but curiosity made me 
add, 



86 " Because of Nellie" 

"What have you heard to give you such ideas about Helen and 
me?" 

" Oh, about everything there is to know, I guess," the girl replied 
with a smile. " Besides being Nellie's cousin, I am her closest friend, 
you know." 

" I think you carry loyalty too far," said I gravely. " All Helen 
could have told you occurred quite in the past; and considering ex- 
isting circumstances, it seems hardly reasonable to expect me still 
to think only of her." 

" Do you mean you think she cared for that other man ?" cried 
my companion, her blue eyes opening wide with astonishment. 

"Why, surely, I hope so!" It was my turn to look surprised 
for I could still see Helen's eyes, with the love-light in them, as she 
turned from the chancel on Blakeley's arm and faced us, a radiant 
bride. 

" You hope so ?" Miss Brooke repeated wonderingly. " Mr. Shel- 
ton, I quite fail to understand you!" The color had all faded from 
her cheeks, and her lip was slightly trembling. Perplexed myself, 
and wondering wherein I had blundered, I yet had no chance to 
question or explain, for at this critical moment " Aunt Fanny" our 
hostess saw fit to make her rustling entry, and, scarce waiting for 
Eleanore to murmur my name, she descended upon me with the most 
effusive of welcomes wherein regrets for the absence of Nellie ap- 
peared as the dominant theme. Then the other guests began to arrive, 
and hardly had I started a conversation with a vivacious young ma- 
tron to whom I had just been presented, than she asked where dear 
Nellie was ; and on being informed that " dear Nellie" was ill with 
the grippe, she gave me the most sympathetic of glances, and said 
she knew just how bored I must be without her. " But," she added, 
"now the rest of us will have some chance at you, which I know 
would not be the case if Nellie were here." 

Clearly, these people had acquired a horribly exaggerated view of 
my relations with Helen! Had she told them all of the story of my 
early slavery, I had been pretty abject in my devotion to her, and 
did she, and they, fancy that I would keep the thing up now? And 
Miss Brooke had hinted that Helen never loved Blakeley, while she 
evidently at least still thought a great deal about me! The situ- 
ation, as it seemed to be revealing itself, did not greatly appeal to me ; 
and considering that our hostess and most of the guests appeared to 
be relations of poor Blakeley's, it struck me as rather remarkable. 

At dinner I found myself seated at our hostess's right, with the 
lively little matron on the other side of me. Miss Brooke was at the 
far end of the table, where I could just catch a glimpse of her lovely 
face now and then behind the screen of roses. 



" Because of Nellie" 87 

Stranger though I was, I never felt more at ease than at that 
table. My neighbors appeared not only interesting, but interested; 
and all seeming the closest of friends themselves, they included me 
in their charming circle with a grace as delightful as it was sur- 
prising. 

All went well until the game course, when, glancing over my 
shoulder, I noticed a full-length portrait of a strikingly handsome 
girl. 

My little neighbor's eyes followed mine. 

"Well, what do you think of it?" she inquired, with a smile. 
"I did not say anything about it, because I was sure you would dis- 
cover it yourself. It is just finished." 

" It is a beautiful piece of work," I answered, " of a very beautiful 
subject. May I ask who the young lady is?" 

" Why, don't you recognize her ?" cried my neighbor. " Look 
again." And when I had looked, and still vaguely shook my head, the 
little lady broke into the merriest laughter, and leaning across me, 
tapped our hostess's arm with her fan. 

" Cousin Fanny ! Cousin Fanny !" she cried, " here is a good joke 
on your beautiful Sargent ! Mr. Shelton wants to know who she is !" 

"Why, didn't you recognize it?" asked my hostess in her turn; 
and then: "It's Nellie," said she and the little matron in chorus. 

I solemnly turned again to the portrait. Here was a girl scarce 
out of her teens, tall, slender, and almost Spanish in her dark beauty. 
The Helen I knew was petite in figure, with hair like a halo of copper- 
gold and eyes as blue as the sky! 

" Well," prompted my hostess after a full minute of silence, " what 
have you to say about it?" 

"Just this," I answered gravely: "that I have made a dreadful 
blunder. I cannot say that I regret it, for it has opened a new world 
to me," and involuntarily my eyes turned towards the other end of 
the table, where Eleanore Brooke's sweet face smiled at us through the 
roses, "but I trust you will believe me when I assure you that until 
this minute I did not realize my mistake." 

And then I confessed to her the whole story even to my old-time 
devotion to Helen Blakeley, so that they might fully understand my 
part in our talk of " Nellie." And then I told her who I was : Car- 
roll Sheldon, lawyer, of St. Louis; and at that she extended her hand 
to me and bade me welcome in my own name, for she too, she told 
me, had been a Missourian, and had known both my father and my 
mother, even before they had known each other. She would not let 
me apologize, nor hear of my going on to the Blakeleys who, of 
course, lived at ^943; so, realizing that I would be too late to be 
welcome at Helen's now, I allowed myself to be persuaded and re- 



88 " Because of Nellie" 

mained, though fully realizing that I should have need of all my 
diplomacy on the morrow, when I must call and make my peace with 
Helen. 

" Now/' I said, turning to my little neighbor on the right, " won't 
you please tell me who you have all thought me to be this evening, 
and who ' Nellie' is, and what I was supposed to have to do with her ? 
I evidently disappointed Miss Brooke terribly in my attitude towards 
Nellie!" 

" You probably did, indeed," laughed Mrs. Dalton, " for your orig- 
inal is madly in love with Nellie, and Nellie is trying to make up her 
mind whether she truly reciprocates his affection. You see, it is an 
interesting situation! You or rather he was invited here to-night 
in order that we, Nellie's sisters and cousins and aunts, and uncles 
too, might look him over and help her decide whether or not he 
would do. Alas, we had fully decided you would and now we must 
go all over it again !" she concluded, with a wof ul little pout that ended 
in a merry laugh. 

" But, Mrs. Dalton," I cried the next instant, " Mrs. Brooke called 
me by name, and Miss Brooke spoke of my minister-brother, and 
and referred to other matters which might well have applied to me. 
If you can, please explain these mysteries." 

" Your name is Sheldon ? Well, the other man is Eobert Shelton 
you see, the names could very easily be confounded. For the rest, 
his brother is a chaplain in the Navy, and it appears that you also 

have a brother in the ministry. That part is quite simple, but 

There, Cousin Fanny is speaking to you!" 

I turned, and found Mrs. Brooke smiling over a telegram which 
the butler had just brought to her, and which she now handed to me 
with the low comment, 

"This would have been rather baffling had it come half an hour 
ago!" 

It was a belated despatch from League Island Navy Yard, and 
read as follows: 

" Sincerely regret special duty will prevent my having 
the pleasure of dining with you to-night. 

" ROBERT SHELTON, U. S. M. C." 

I in turn passed it on to Mrs. Dalton. 

" This explains another point which rather bothered me this even- 
ing," I remarked, "Miss Brooke's enthusiasm over my military 
prowess." 

Mrs. Dalton laughed. " That is just what I have been wonder- 
ing: how you managed to satisfy her on that point," she declared, 
"for Mr. Shelton is a first-lieutenant in the marines, and has served 
with considerable distinction in China and the Philippines; and as 



The Cathedral at Burgos 89 

Eleanore has been simply crazy to hear him tell of his doughty deeds 
out there, I don't really see how you managed to talk to her for any 
time without thinking something was wrong!" 

" I did/' I confessed, laughing at the recollection of her reference 
to my " bravery under fire/' " but we men are such conceited creatures 
that I simply thought that my distinguished services in the militia 
were being appreciated at last, and took all her praises to myself!" 

As the ladies rose to leave us to our cigars, I caught my kind 
hostess's eye. 

" Please," I whispered, as she passed, " please try to explain me 
to Miss Brooke!" 

A half hour later, when we too adjourned to the library, I im- 
mediately turned to join Miss Brooke; but meeting my questioning 
glance, she colored and looked away from me ; nor could I find an oppor- 
tunity for a word apart with her until the evening was almost gone. 
Then I sought her to say " good-night ;" and perhaps she did not 
realize it, but she let her hand lie still in mine as I questioned 
quickly, 

" Do you know ? and will you let me come again, and welcome me, 
not not because of Nellie?" 

"Yes," she answered softly; "and Mr. Sheldon I think I'm 
glad, after all, even though you aren't a soldier! that you didn't 
come because of Nellie!" 

* 
THE CATHEDRAL AT BURGOS 

(SPANISH-GOTHIC) 
BY S. R. ELLIOTT 

WHEN answered were the martyr's prayers and sighs 
When the rude Goth was touched by throes divine 
And moved by Christian grace to build a shrine, 
Towards the bending heaven he raised his eyes, 
Hoping to see some temple in the skies. 
Lo, there a shadowy North inspires design : 
The granite bowlder, and the broken line 
Of gorge and cliff and arrowy pine arise ! 

So built the Goth, a distant sire of mine ; 

And yesterday, within this temple fair, 

I felt the cool breath of the mountain air, 

The strong, sweet savor of the mountain pine, 

Descend upon me, as before the shrine 

I knelt and knew my Thor and Odin there ! 



THE LAZZAPAROOLA 

By Edward Boltwood 



i. 

THE stage-driver pointed out Mrs. Major's Blue Wing Eestaurant 
as our wheels sloshed painfully through the mud of Pass City's 
main street. 

" That widow woman's/' he said, " is the joint, if you're looking for 
breakfast." 

"Best place in town?" I asked. 

He debated this question mentally. "Yes, sir," he concluded. 
"There ain't no other." 

The Blue Wing was the usual, depressing type. There was a long 
table draped with a red-and-white cloth, a tall, attenuated stove, a 
grimy door leading into the kitchen. Behind the narrow cigar-stand 
sat a man at the receipt of custom, concealed by a newspaper. The 
breakfast and Mrs. Major were depressing also. She was rotund, 
slightly more than forty, and not fair, with an over-receptive smile 
and a gay shirt-waist which was unpleasantly meant to please. I went 
to the desk to pay for my entertainment. 

"Four bits," said the hidden man. 

"What? Eoaring Andy?" 

Andy fumbled in the cash-drawer until Mrs. Major had careened 
into the kitchen. Then he looked at me nervously. 

" Say, if you'd just as lief do me a favor," he whispered. " That 
roaring name, it's cut out for a spell. I don't guess she'd stand for no 
roarer." 

Eoaring Andy Garr's equal for diffidence is yet to be found in the 
Black Hills of Wyoming. He is a little man, pale of hair, of eye, and 
of face, and I had known him when he was cook for the Lazy-X ranch. 
I remarked upon his gaudy necktie and his starched linen, and Andy 
winked craftily in the direction of the kitchen. The wink was thor- 
oughly explanatory. 

" She ain't give in, but we reckon to pull it off come spring," mum- 
bled Garr, and blushed delicately when the Widow emerged. 

The street-door banged. John Heffren lurched in and across the 
room to the table. His condition was extremely surprising, for big 
John is not a drinking man. With his mighty fist he pounded the 

90 



The Lazzaparoola 91 

table until the salt jumped and I became apprehensive. John clanked 
his spurred heels together, threw back his head, and whooped shrilly. 

" Whee !" yelled Heffren. " Do I get waffles or don't I ? Come 
a-runnin', everybody! Do I get victuals? Answer quick, you splay- 
footed catfish, afore I rips this shanty limb from limb ! Answer before 
the massacree, you still-born coyote I" 

Mrs. Major was cowering behind the stove, as though fascinated by 
the giant's wrath. Andy folded his newspaper deliberately, walked over 
to John, and grabbed his collar. I held my breath, knowing that Hef- 
fren could toss both Andy and me through the ceiling. 

" Look a-here," said Eoaring Andy quietly, " I don't want no more 
truck with you. Shut up and get out." 

The colossus squirmed. " Leave go," he whimpered. " Don't choke 
me that a-way." 

"Shut up and get out," repeated little Andy, "or I'll take your 
homely face apart to hang on my watch-chain. How many times have 
I got to stop your beefin' around here? Next time, you bring your 
favorite undertaker with you, whoever you are. Savvy? That's all I 
think of you." 

With incredible audacity he whacked the newspaper viciously on 
John's face. 

"All right, all right," coughed Heffren, staggering to his feet. 
"Don't rub it in, mister not before a lady. Jerusalem, what a 
muscle !" 

" Ask the lady's pardon, you," ordered the majestic Andy. 

John complied, not without grace. He has a way with women, and 
Mrs. Major smiled furtively. 

"Tell her you're licked by a better man," continued G-arr. 

"I'm licked by a oh, I'm licked!" hiccoughed John, and reeled 
very drunkenly to the street. 

Eeflecting with some awe upon the potency of Pass City whiskey, 
I immediately overtook John in the secluded alley behind the El Dorado 
saloon. He was not in the slightest degree intoxicated. 

II. 

" How was it ?" demanded John Heffren anxiously. 

My bewilderment was speechless. 

"Oh, me and Garr'd ought to be Uncle Tommers," he declared. 
"But that slap-work has got to be laid away, though. That ain't on 
the invoice." He rubbed his cheek and sat down on the edge of the 
high plank sidewalk, dangling his boots. " This here," he said, " is 
what you call a matrimonial agency. Me, I'm the agent, and we've 
plumb elected that Widow/' 



92 The Lazzaparoola 

"You marry that " 

" Oh, by mighty, no !" protested John angrily. " Her ? I wouldn't 
have that old bison pouring my coffee for all the steers on the Little 
Missouri. But Andy Garr, he's hot-foot. Listen. I waltzes into this 
here camp a week ago and there's Garr making change at the Blue 
Wing, and hell-bent on the Widow. ' She won't have me,' says Andy. 
'Why for not?' I says. ''Pears like she ain't got no license to pick 
'em/ Andy looks sure suicidal. ' She won't have me/ he says, ' 'cause 
she misdoubts I ain't fit enough to guardeen her restaurant,' he says." 

I began to grasp the situation. 

" You see," went on Heffren, " Garr don't shape up to be much of a 
man, so him and me allows we'll make out to that Widow that he's 
p'intedly a war-chief. She don't know we're anyways acquainted. 
Andy throws me out o' that chuck-shop every day, a'most. Yesterday 
I rang in some of the Bar-0-Dot punchers, and they flitted into 
that Blue Wing playing drunk, and Andy chased 'em out like they was 
hens. You'd a-died. The Widow thinks he's a regiment of artillery. 
Well, I got the paper and matches if you've got the " 

I handed him my tobacco-pouch, and with his thick fingers he rolled 
a cigarette as daintily as a Spanish girl. The planking creaked timidly 
behind us. 

" Wie geht's, Cupid ?" said John, without shifting. " How is our 
amorous prospecting expedition coming along this morning, you loco- 
weeded valentine?" 

Andy Garr sat down beside us and expectorated gloomily between 
his knees. 

"It's coming along heap bad," he said. "I just tried to file a 
marriage claim on her. Nothing doing. It's down to cases, Heffren. 
1 can't gall myself with this boiled shirt forever." 

"We'll have to act out another lazzaparoola," sighed Heffren. 

"Yes, and we got to cook it more stronger," the suitor agreed 
earnestly. " She says she ain't sure I can do better than talk. That's 
the reason I wiped you with the newspaper, Heffren. But 'twarn't no 
good." 

" I thought it was pretty middlin'," said John, with a hand on his 
ear. "Ain't you going to join the hunting party?" he proposed to me. 
" Rear into the Blue Wing and let Andy shoot your skin full. That'll 
help some. He'll ask you to the wedding. Won't you, you love-twisted 
cabanero? 4 n d when christenin' season comes maybe so " 

" Heffren," interposed Garr judiciously, " if you warn't a quitter, 
you wouldn't let yourself be euchred, once we've started. Gun-play 
ain't needful. All that's wanted is for me to heave you onto the floor 
and beat you up a whole lot. If she could see me do that, Heffren, it 
would everlastingly hobble her." 



The Lazzaparoola 93 

" Let you beat me up, hey ?" snorted John. " Where'd you think I 
come from? College ?" 

" Oh, I'll do it gentle," persisted little Andy, " cross my heart I 
will. You can give out I've bust your leg or something. Go ahead. 
Say, if you do, and if the deal goes through, Heffren, I'll give you 
free meal tickets till the spring round-up." 

John snapped away his cigarette. "That goes," he announced, 
and I witnessed the compact joyously. We sealed it at the El Dorado, 
where Heffren pensively advised us to drink with gloves on if we 
did not wish to blister our hands with the fiery beverages. 

III. 

THE lazzaparoola was scheduled for an hour when the Blue Wing 
was deserted. I secured a reserved seat in the corner of the empty 
dining-room. 

It is believed that the artistry of cow-boy comedy can be bettered 
nowhere. When Heffren glided into the restaurant the perfection of 
his mimicry would have made a Coquelin despair. John was now the 
bad man, the man on the kill. His voice was silken, he handled him- 
self as noiselessly as a cat, his eyes were mere slits, and his nostrils 
twitched. He seemed to reek of malevolence and sudden death. At 
the sight of him any experienced city marshal would have reached 
for a gun instinctively. Even Mrs. Major recognized his kind, and she 
changed color at the purring, uncanny politeness with which Heffren 
requested scrambled eggs. 

" I told you what I'd do to you !" snarled Andy. " Now I I'll learn 
you!" 

Mrs. Major screamed as he grappled the desperado valiantly. They 
wrestled up and down the room. John made apparently herculean 
efforts to draw his pistol and performed a sort of polka step. 

" Fiddle, you in the corner," he suggested, and lightly swung Andy 
off the floor. " Ladies' chain and dip your partners," called John. 

They brushed against the stove, and it descended in a cloud of soot. 

" Hold up, you damn fool !" grunted Andy, who was losing breath. 

" All promenade !" sang Heffren. " Hi, tiddy, hi, ti !" 

He folded Garr to his breast and they rolled over the top of the 
table like a pair of acrobats. The cloth enveloped them and the 
wreckage was remarkable. Mrs. Major again gave tongue. 

"He's killed!" she screamed. ^ 

"I ain't," Andy assured her. "Don't be afraid. That's tomato- 
sauce you see." 

"Wow! It's me that's killed, Ma'am," howled John. 

"That's what I said," retorted the Widow, weeping. "Let me to 
him, you good-for-nothing coward!" 



94 The Lazzaparoola 

Andy obeyed, eying the lady with sheepish surprise. She scurried 
to the head of the fallen gladiator and upheld it affectionately in the 
capacious crook of her elbow. John groaned. 

" My neck's broke/' he said, " and my leg and I'm a rib or two 
shy and, suffering dogs, what a fighter!" 

"He's a good-for-nothing coward!" exploded Mrs. Major. "He 
took you when you were off your guard." She shook her unemployed 
arm truculently at Soaring Andy. "Why couldn't you stand to it 
and fight like a man?" she cried. "Why did you trip him like a 
dancing hyena? Ah, the poor dear! Where does it hurt you? He's 
dying !" 

" Oh, die your grandmother !" exclaimed Garr in disgust. 

"Who's a grandmother? Lie quiet, Mr. Mr. " 

" St. Julian !" gurgled Heffren from the folds of the table-cloth. 

" Saint nothing !" shouted Andy. " He's a double-faced idjut and 
his name's " 

" Oh, oh !" croaked John, " my ribs ! Would you please take your 
heft off my chest, Ma'am?" 

His uneasiness was not solely physical. He watched Mrs. Major 
with growing concern as she mopped his forehead tenderly. 

" Lie still, Mr. ah, a lovely name !" she sighed. " Is the poor leg 
broke? Put your arm around my neck till I raise you." 

"Don't bother yourself, Ma'am," hinted John, with panic now 
plainly in his voice. 

"There, lay your head on my shoulder, Mr. St. Julian," and she 
assisted him to a chair. 

Heffren glanced a moving appeal at me. 

"I calculate, Ma'am," he said, clearing his throat apologetically, 
"I kind of calculate my friend yonder can sort of pack me down to 
the livery stable where my pony is at, Ma'am. I warn't so dreadful 
bad hurted and I'd as soon go now, Ma'am, if you please." 

" Hush, hush !" implored the lady with infinite solicitude. " You're 
wandering in your mind, poor darling. Not an inch do you move till 
you're well. There, I've took note of you many times here before 
drinking, maybe, but it's a man's weakness and, gracious knows, you 
was always polite. You sha'n't stir a step out of my place. I got a 
couple of women to help me tend you one of 'em's colored, but she's 
a' elegant nurse." 

"This cussed foolishness," blurted Andy, "beats camp-meeting!" 

" You dancing hyena !" shrieked Mrs. Major. " Don't never let 
me see your ugly, no-'count face again!" 

She straightened herself ominously, picked up a carving-fork, ad- 
vanced upon Andy Garr, and Eoaring Andy quailed. He was a timorous 
man, and it would have required something more than a hero to face 



The Doorway 65 

the indignant Amazon of the Blue Wing at that psychological moment. 
As for me, I make no pretensions, I was already in the street when 
Andy sidled over the threshold. My path across the dining-room 
brought me close to Heffren's chair, and I caught his agonized en- 
treaty to leave the door ajar and to saddle his Ginger Pop. 

At the livery-stable I waited with Andy, who was plunged in a 
melancholy silence. We were buckling Ginger Pop's fore cinch when 
his owner sprawled around the corner. The hasty progress of a cow- 
puncher afoot is not graceful. John's legs and arms flew erratically. 
wind-mill fashion, and his face was a dark purple. In his wake Mrs. 
Major tacked through the mud like a full-rigged ship. She brandished 
indiscriminately the carving-fork and a bottle of smelling-salts. 

Heffren bounced into the saddle. 

"I was afeared she'd call in a minister before supper," he gasped, 
" and rope me. The Great American Desert's my home, sweet home, 
just now," and he galloped away, bawling genial advice to his Ariadne, 
who had collapsed helplessly upon the steps of the El Dorado. 

"Well," said Andy bitterly, "if that wouldn't sicken a 'Pache, I 
don't know !" 



THE DOORWAY 

BY ELLA HEATH 

IN the heart of the day I strayed to the heart of a tangled wood, 
And there, like a dream, before me a desolate portal stood. 

Strange and solemn and sombre it stood and I was alone; 
Mystery fell like a fog ; fear swept by like a moan. 

It was bolted strongly above, and bolted below again, 

And one of the bolts was Sorrow, and the other bolt was Pain. 

Two dim lights hung in the shadow, two red and misty spheres, 

And my soul sank as I saw them, for I knew they were Blood and Tears. 

The way was lost behind me, backward I dared not go ; 
I beat upon the portal, and my heart broke with the blow. 

Bruised, and bleeding, and blinded, I forced the bolts to move 
I passed through the dreadful doorway . . . and the other side was 
Love! 



THE EMANCIPATION OF 
LYDIA DUROE 



M 



By Mabel Nelson Thurston 

Author of "On the Road to Arcady" 



KS. SIMON" BALE stepped with ponderous solemnity up the 
path between the flower-beds with their brown and tattered 
company. It was the second of November, and the air was 
full of the fine, sharp voices of dead leaves and bare, scraping branches ; 
there was quite a wind that afternoon. Before Mrs. Bale touched the 
door Mrs. Warren opened it from within. 

"I see you going over to Lydia's," she said in the repressed tone 
with which one speaks of a house where death is guest, " and I told 
Jessie that I thought likely you'd stop in on the way back, so I was 
sort of watching for you. Lay off your things, Em'line." 

" I dunno's I'd ought to," Mrs. Bale responded, doubtfully unwind- 
ing the nubia that framed her broad face. "I- can't stay more'n half 
a minute, for I've got to get back and make biscuits for supper. Well, 
there, Jessie, I've jest discovered you, curled up in that corner." 

The young girl looked up with a serious smile. She had an odd, 
eager, little, brown face, with eyes so blue that at times, when alight 
with excitement, the effect was almost startling. People often looked 
at her with the curious feeling that she had spoken and they missed 
her words : they couldn't make her out, they confided to each other. 

Mrs. Bale, surrendering her wraps, sank heavily into the nearest 
rocking-chair. Mrs. Warren took the one opposite, and for a moment 
or two they rocked in silence. Mrs. Bale was the first to speak. 

"Well, and so poor Betsy's gone at last!" she sighed. "It came 
on me like a clap this morning : she'd been hanging on about the same 
for so many years that I s'pose we didn't realize that she really had 
been failing all the time. Lyddy says she passed away real easy, in her 
sleep." 

" Last night," Mrs. Warren confirmed her. " Lyddy didn't know 
till this morning. She came running over before I was dressed, an' I 
jest flung on what was nearest and went back with her. She looked 
as peaceful as a child." 

They both glanced instinctively towards the opposite house. A 
brown tangle of honeysuckle and roses hid the door, but every now 
and then something black fluttered against the pale sky. 

96 



The Emancipation of Lydia Duroe 97 

" 'Twas a blessed release, if ever there was one," Mrs. Bale asserted. 
" It's full five years now since she's been a comfort to herself or any- 
one else. There ain't many would have done for her as Lyddy has 
and she no kin at all." 

" I said so to Lyddy once. I said that it didn't seem right she 
should be wasting her life on an old woman that had no claim on her. 
< If she knew, 'twould be different,' I said. ' But she don't sense any- 
thing that's going on round her, and you're jest throwing away the 
best years of your life/ I told her." 

" 'Tain't hard to guess what Lyddy answered," Mrs. Bale said with 
some amusement. " Nobody ever got any thanks for telling Lyddy to 
consider herself." 

" No more I didn't," her friend returned. " Lyddy said that Betsy 
had taken care of her mother, and she wa'n't one that could forget 
things like that. Betsy should have all that she could give her as 
long as she lived. As for her not sensing what went on around her, 
she didn't know about that. She certainly knew the difference between 
her and anyone else." 

" She certainly did," Mrs. Bale agreed. " That was what made me 
maddest. She'd treat Lyddy like the dirt under her feet, but if Lyddy 
wanted to go over to Medford for a day shopping or anything, there'd 
be hurrah, boys, sure enough. Poor Lyddy used to come home before 
half her errands were done, all wore out with worrying over things 
that might have happened. And there Betsy would set and scold 
at her for going and leaving her." 

" I don't think Lyddy minded the talking she always maintained 
that Betsy wasn't responsible. But it got pretty hard along towards 
the last when Betsy got so fractious. I recollect I was over one evening 
last summer when Lyddy was trying to get her to bed. I declare it was 
a reg'lar performance. 

" ' Come, Aunt Betsy,' she'd begin, sort o' peaceable, but command- 
ing underneath. 

" ' Come what ?' snaps Aunt Betsy, sitting up straight an' prim. 

" ' Why, come to bed didn't you hear the clock strike nine ?' 

" c Never striked !' says Aunt Betsy. 

" So then Lyddy I declare, her patience jest beat me would go 
and bring the clock and show her, and like as not Aunt Betsy would 
declare 'twas only six, and that Lyddy was jest plottin' to get her out 
of the way. And sometimes Lyddy'd get the best of it and sometimes 
she'd have to set up an hour or two before she could get her out of her 
chair. And even then 'twas only begun. Like as not when Lyddy 
took off her dress she'd ketch hold of the bed-post and refuse to let go. 
I mind one evening I was over when she jerked the bed all round 
the room you know she was real strong in ways. I declare I laughed 

VOL. LXXIV. 4 



98 The Emancipation of Lydia Duroe 

till I cried to see her I jest couldn't help it," and Mrs. Warren 
wiped away mirthful tears at the remembrance. " Fd ought to be 
ashamed laughing with her laying over there," she acknowledged, " but 
there, I dunno's it's wicked. 'Tain't as if 'twa'n't happier for her 
more'n everybody else, even Lyddy. I've been thinking all day, and 
wondering how it seemed to her to be done with all her cranks an' 
twists. More'n once I've seen a puzzled look in her eyes as if she 
kind o' half realized that things wasn't right with her. Well, I guess 
they're all right now." 

The two women rocked softly. In the silence the stove creaked 
and a fly buzzed about the pane. When Mrs. Warren spoke again, it 
was of the living, and not of the dead. 

" I've been figuring up," she said. " Lyddy's forty-one, ain't she ? 
And her mother had her first stroke when she was twenty-five; that 
makes sixteen years she's been tied up first her mother all those 
years; then the very week after she was taken her father had that 
spell of rheumatism that left him crippled and helpless ; and after he 
went, there was Betsy. Sixteen years is a good deal to take out of a 
woman's life. There ain't many would have taken it the way Lyddy 
has." 

" No more there ain't," Mrs. Bale assented warmly. " I said to 
Simon this morning as soon as the news came 'Well, Lyddy's free 
now/ I said, ' and I do hope the Lord'll make up to her for the years 
she's given to other people.' She's the salt of the earth, is Lyddy Duroe, 
but sometimes I dunno how much satisfaction there is in that. I hope 
the Lyddy Duroes will get rewarded hereafter, for it does seem, some- 
times, as if about the only reward they get down here is more trouble." 

" Well, it seems as if Lyddy might enjoy herself a spell now. She's 
got enough to live on, and she's real young-seeming. I declare I've 
seen Lyddy times, when her cheeks was pink and her eyes shining, 
when she didn't look a day over thirty." 

Mrs. Bale caught and answered the unspoken suggestion with an 
alertness surprising in one whose physical bulk moved with such 
extreme deliberation. 

" Well, now, 'twouldn't be the strangest thing in the world," she 
declared. " Everybody knew that Blkah Sutton wanted Lyddy badly 
enough, but she wouldn't leave her mother. And now his wife has been 
dead two years or is it three ?" 

"'Twill be two and a half years come the eighteenth of January," 
Mrs. Warren replied accurately. The two women glanced significantly 
at each other; there was a feeling that it was hardly decorous to talk 
of love under the shadow of that fluttering ribbon across the road, but 
the subject would not quite be suppressed. Little Jessie from her 
corner looked up with a sudden light in her blue eyes. In a girl's 
hero-worshipping world she had for years admired Lydia Duroe. 



The Emancipation of Lydia Duroe 99 

Mrs. Bale struggled heavily to her feet. " Well, I must be get- 
ting along," she said ; " I've set longer now than I had any idea of 
doing. I s'pose I'll see you at the funeral to-morrow?" 

" I'm going over early to help Lyddy," Mrs. Warren returned. 
"There ain't much to do, but it didn't seem right for her to be all 
alone, and I'm her nearest neighbor. I wish you didn't have to hurry, 
Mrs. Bale." 

" There was jest my shawl and nubia, Jessie," Mrs. Bale called 
after the girl, who was going for her wraps. " Well, I'm sure I don't 
think I've been in any hurry, Mrs. Warren. Somehow when I get over 
here I allus do have a piece of work getting started again. That's 
so 'tis forlorn for Lyddy. Hasn't she any kin at all?" 

" I've heard there are some of her father's folks still living, but 
there isn't anybody on her mother's side nearer than second cousins; 
and when you want folks, second cousins ain't apt to be satisfying, 
Mrs. Bale." 

"No more they ain't," Mrs. Bale agreed, backing clumsily around 
as she stood on the doorstep. " Well, Providence has a way of sur- 
prising folks sometimes. Ef nothing else turns up for Lydia, she'll 
discover a new relation. Don't you be standing at the door in this 
wind, Mrs. Warren. Come over when you can." 

The wind whipped the last words out of her mouth almost before 
they were spoken. For a moment Mrs. Bale stood struggling to catch 
her breath against it; then she plodded heavily down the road, her 
broad bulk looming impressively against the bare road. 

Over in the other house Lydia Duroe watched her pass. She was a 
tall woman with clear gray eyes still full of the spirit of youth. There 
was unquenchable youth too in the splendid ease and vigor of all her 
movements. Sitting behind the closed blinds she looked down at her 
idle hands with a curious expression, as if they had suddenly become 
unfamiliar to her; as a matter of fact, she could not remember when 
before she had sat for an afternoon so. The gloom of the room de- 
pressed her; she was almost pagan in her worship of light; when 
her mother and father had died, she had refused to have the blinds 
closed. 

" I dunno when I'll ever need to let in all the heaven I can more'n 
now," she had said. But the very fact that the little, still figure 
down below had claimed pity rather than love made her, in an odd 
fashion that she did not try to explain, carefully scrupulous. 

" I want to do everything the way she'd like it," she had told 
Mrs. Warren. " She didn't have much in her life when you think 
about it. I like to think that she's proud about this, if she knows." 

So through the long afternoon she sat in the shadowed silence. It 
seemed to her as if the world had stopped. Vaguely she realized 



100 The Emancipation of Lydia Duroe 

that it was going to be strange to have no one needing her any more; 
she had not yet caught the flavor of liberty in the cup that had come 
to her: she tasted only its loneliness. 

Just at dusk a man pushed open her gate. He was tall and delicate- 
looking, and stepped with a certain nervous eagerness. Lydia rose 
quickly and met him at the door. 

"I don't s'pose there's anything I can do, Lydia," he said, "but 
I wanted you to know that I was ready. There ain't anything you 
could ask me that I wouldn't be glad to do." 

" I know that, Elkah," she answered quietly. " No, there ain't any- 
thing, but 'tain't because I wouldn't ask you if there was." 

He looked hesitatingly beyond her into the house. 

" I thought mebbe I'd come over a little while to-morrow evening," 
he suggested. But she answered, with something almost like alarm in 
her voice, " Not to-morrow, Elkah." 

He stared at her blankly. She recovered herself instantly. 

"It's just some more of my queerness," she said, laughing a little 
uncertainly. "You know you always said that I was queer. And to- 
morrow night such a few hours after poor Betsy has been laid away 
I'd rather not see people for a little while." 

An expression of relief lightened the dejection of his face. 

" Jest as you say, of course, Lydia," he responded stiffly. 

Lydia's grave face flashed into a smile full of all good-will and 
fellowship. 

" I know 'tis, Elkah," she returned. " Folks have to fix things for 
themselves the best they know how. There's no shirking that we've 
both found that out, as I guess everybody does sooner or later." 

From the dark room she watched him down to the road. He shuffled 
a little as he walked, she noticed. There was a gentle inefficiency about 
the whole man that plead eloquently for a woman's care. Lydia's lips 
were compressed with sudden pain. 

" I guess everything's too late for me," she said bitterly. " There's 
been flowers and birds and sunshine, weeks and weeks of it, and I'd 
have loved it just as well as anybody, but I couldn't stop to look at 
them. And now it's November and there ain't nothing left." 

It was a mood of bitterness rare for her, but the sudden knowledge 
that her life had carried her irretrievably beyond this man found her 
all unprepared. 

The next day came and passed. There was a large funeral; every- 
body came for Lydia's sake. Lydia caught herself once counting the 
carriages, thinking how pleased Betsy would be. Then she went back 
to the empty house and waited for morning. She did not know exactly 
what she was going to do except that she was going to walk and walk. 
She was starving for light and the wide liberty of open fields. Once 



The Emancipation of Lydia DurOe 101 

she stopped aghast in her thinking if it should rain to-morrow! It 
seemed to her thought a calamity outweighing any power of words. 

But it did not rain. Lydia, up early for first tidings of her day, 
stood awestruck before the glory of the sunrise gold that flooded the 
whole sky and burned for breathless moments of ecstasy, vanishing 
finally in long, shimmering silver reaches and trailing clouds of ose 
like the memory of all the beauty of summer-time. She accepted the 
omen with the passion of one to whom life and death rest in the de- 
cision of a day. " I ain't never seen a finer sunrise than that in June," 
she thought exultantly. So much, at least, had blessed her November 
forever. 

She had not thought herself hungry, but she ate a good breakfast 
and then set her house in order. No loose ends anywhere should spoil 
the fair order of her day. Besides, each moment the sun was climbing 
higher, and the world, numb and stiff from the November night, was 
relaxing in its warmth. As she went about her work she was con- 
scious of enticing colors without. She would not turn her eyes to 
them, but she smiled as one who has heard a secret word of joy. 

It was half -past nine when she locked her door and dropped the key 
in her pocket. She stood upon the door-stone a moment, her face 
lifted to the sky. It was a wonderful day, with the tenderness and 
color of Indian summer, yet with a crisp edge that enticed one to deeds, 
not dreams. She turned happily up the road, her eyes a-holidaying 
like happy children. 

The road stretched away in idle, solitary fashion, with no house 
for quite a distance. Sometimes there were trees, sometimes only open 
fields; but there were hedge-rows always. Lydia noticed wonderingly 
how the few, thin leaves left fluttering there glowed like gems. " I'd 
most think they was flowers," she said to herself. 

Little troops of dry leaves started up under her feet and drifted 
along before her; they seemed wood-spirits instinct with life and 
motion. Lydia walked faster and faster to keep them company so 
fast that she did not hear anyone behind her till a panting voice 
reached her consciousness. 

" Miss Lydia oh Miss Lydia " 

She turned, bewildered. Jessie Warren was running after her, her 
little, dark face full of excitement. She looked with pleading eager- 
ness at Lydia. 

" Oh Miss Lydia, I saw you starting out, and you looked as if you 
were going to have such a good time, and I wondered would you let 
me come too? Would I bother?" 

Lydia's face flashed into brightness. Something warm and vital 
had suddenly blossomed in her day something that she might have 
missed and never known that she had missed. 



102 The Emancipation of Lydia Duroe 

" I don't know where I'm going," she said. " I'm just going to 
walk till I get tired." 

Blue sparks danced in the girl's eyes. She clapped her hands im- 
pulsively. 

" I never did anything in my life without knowing what it was 
going to be/' she cried ; " I've wanted to so often !" 

" And I'm not good company/' Lydia insisted. " I ain't any 
talker." 

" I don't want any talker," the girl sang back. She smiled at Lydia 
with frank boldness. " I'm coming," she declared. " I'm here. You 
don't have to pay any attention to me, but I'm in the day with the 
sky and the shadows and those little, dancing leaves. You needn't pay 
any attention to me, but you can't turn me out." 

Lydia smiled back at her. " I haven't said I wanted to turn you 
out, have I ?" she retorted. 

" Oh, well I" replied the girl. She threw up her arms and dashed 
into a heap of dry leaves, scattering them in a fragrant, brown spray 
about her. " I feel like that I" she cried. Then she stopped and puffed 
out her thin cheeks and mimicked the wind. " And like that," she 
added. Even as she spoke a little footpath caught her notice and she 
slipped into it, peering back through the brown branches at Lydia. 

" Grood-by !" she called. " Somewhere, farther on, you'll stumble 
upon me." The branches swung to; for several moments there was a 
soft commotion in their tips, but the girl did not reappear. 

Lydia walked on, smiling to herself. Half a mile farther on she 
found her. She was sitting on a stone wall, her chin in her hands, 
staring into a tangle of raspberry-bushes whose vivid lavender stems 
shone like pale violet flames against the brown hillside. She did not 
turn as Lydia stopped beside her. 

" It's all amethyst," she said dreamily. " I can't clear my eyes of it 
to-day. It haunts the woods I -feel it just beyond my sight and 
the hills and the sky even the stones." 

" I hadn't ever noticed before," Lydia returned wonderingly. 

The girl shook off her mood and leaped down lightly. "You 
couldn't," she explained with gravity. " You see the rest, but not that. 
It goes with my queer eyes, Miss Lydia." 

They walked on then side by side, stopping often, and talking 
occasionally, yet generally silent. The beauty of the day deepened 
as they went on. The long sweeps of the fields brown and gold and 
palest yellow across which the cloud-shadows moved in silent pro- 
cession; the exquisite harmonies of the woods, whose soft tips brushed 
the sky; the note of the little brook, singing contentedly to itself, 
though its ways were bare of bird and blossom these things spoke 
with more intimate counselling than any words of human speech. 



The Emancipation of Lydia Duroe 103 

Lydia's heart drank them in with the eagerness of one long a-thirst. 
The girl who could see had not lived long enough to understand the 
voices : her wild spirits folded their wings, and she walked in wondering 
silence for a long time, that is ; then she spoke with a humility which 
her eyes belied. 

" Do you ever eat anything at home ?" she questioned. 

Lydia started and looked around in dismay. 

" Well, there, dear, how careless of me I" she said. " I never 
thought to bring a thing! And you must be hungry, and it's so far 
from home I" 

" But not far from a store/' Jessie assured her, " a nice little store 
at the cross-roads. You can buy crackers there and peppermint sticks 
and maybe cheese, though I won't promise that I've never seen any- 
thing else except blue socks, and they're hardly digestible. Can you 
eat crackers and peppermint sticks?" 

" Try me," Lydia responded eagerly. 

The girl nodded. " You can wait or go on," she said, " I'll find 
you. I may be some time, because they may have to make the crackers 
while I wait." 

She darted up the road. Lydia sat down on a log and waited. It 
was good to have time to get the flavor of her great wealth to find 
that there were days like this in November that the youth which was 
at the heart of all such days claimed her as comrade. 

" And I've been thinking everything had gone by !" she cried upon 
herself in reproach. " Just as if the Lord had forgotten how to make 
glad things since I'd growed up !" She turned her happy eyes to the 
world lying golden beneath the noontide sun. " Oh my soul, there's 
everything left," she cried exultantly. 

She did not know that Jessie was gone a long time, though her 
words, when she returned, made such inference possible. 

" There wasn't any cheese," she reported, opening her bundle and 
spreading its contents upon a flat-topped rock, "nor any candy. But 
I could have eggs if I could wait for the chickens to be hatched 
and grow up and lay them. So I waited. Are you starving, Miss 
Lydia?" 

" I thought it was you," Lydia replied. 

" I guess maybe it is," Jessie returned with undisturbed gravity. 
"Anyway, here's eggs I know they're fresh for the reasons aforesaid 
and salt and crackers and a brook. And these will have to do you 
till you get home again." 

They ate their simple dinner and found it a banquet, full of delec- 
table ministration to soul as well as body. Then they wandered on 
again and on. It was mid-afternoon before they thought of turning 
back. It was Jessie who spoke first after a long silence. 



104 The Emancipation of Lydia Duroe 

"When we get to that bank where the ferns are/' she said, "Fm 
going to dig one up a little green memory to keep all winter. I'm 
going to get one for you too, Miss Lydia." 

But Lydia did not hear her; she had turned suddenly aside and 
broken a spray of ruddy oak-leaves and buried her face in them. When 
she looked up her eyes were shining solemnly. 

" I'd almost forgotten," she said, " but it's there just the same." 

" What ?" asked Jessie in a hushed voice. 

Lydia held out the spray. As the girl bent to it she caught a 
faint, delicate fragrance, like the dream of spring. 

" It's like lilies," she cried. " Why, Miss Lydia, I never knew that 
oak-leaves were like that." 

" Some of 'em are," Lydia replied ; but her voice was dreamy and 
her eyes saw something far away. Little Jessie looked at her with a 
thrill of awe and delight in her girlish heart. 

" She's thinking of him," she thought exultantly. " Oh, it's all 
coming right now." 

Then they walked on together. 

A week later Mrs. Warren and Jessie "ran over" to Miss Lydia's 
in the afternoon. An old man with a mild, white-whiskered face was 
pottering about the yard. He stopped and stared at the visitors 
with an interest that seemed to hold something proprietary in its com- 
posure. 

" For the land's sake !" Mrs. Warren muttered under her breath. 

Jessie glanced quickly at her mother, but there was no chance for 
question, for Mrs. Warren had darted forward with a vehemence 
evidently inspired by some strong emotion; she dispensed with the 
ceremony of knocking, and burst into the sitting-room like a March 
wind. 

" Lydia Duroe" she cried, " I want to know who that is out in 
your yard." 

Lydia had risen at their entrance; she stood quietly facing them, 
Avith a large composure not untouched with humor. 

" That's Uncle Si Duroe," she answered, " father's oldest brother." 

" Lydia Duroe, you don't mean to say you've gone and taken him 
on your hands after all the years you've been tied up ?" 

" I don't know why not," Lydia replied. " He's been with one of his 
sisters for years, but she's old and sick I could better than anybody else. 
I guess I've got sort o' used to taking care of people it don't seem 
natural without I've got somebody to do for." 

Across Mrs. Warren's agitated shoulder she caught a glimpse of 
Jessie's disappointed young face. She hesitated a moment and then 
added a sentence for her. 

" There's so many things left," she said. 



A THREAD OF SCARLET 

By yennette Lee 

Author of "The Son of a Fiddler," "A Pillar of Salt," etc. 



I. 

ELSIE BAYNOK was coming up the long hill from the post- 
office. Now and then she stopped for a moment to look back 
to the little village hidden among the trees, or lift her face to 
the big clouds that drifted overhead. It had rained for nearly a week, 
and the air in the afternoon sun was like wine. The girl drew a deep 
breath and lifted her head with a gesture that laughed. 

Grandma Pettibone, peering out from between her lace-edged cur- 
tains, watched the figure stride swiftly up the hill. " Seems to me she 
gets straighter V straighter every day," she muttered. 

" Who is it, mother ?" A younger woman came across the room to 
look out. 

" She gets more V more like her Grandma Poppleton every day/' 
said the old lady. " Seems's if I could see her now, a-riding' up the 
hill in that old yellow chariot, lookin' for all the world like a queen; 
and Elsie's gettin' to be the livin' image of her." 

" She'd better be like her than like her mother," said the woman in 
a significant tone. 

" You hadn't ought to speak like that, Nettie. You don't know for 
certain," said the old woman. Her eyes were fixed on the girl's figure 
climbing up the hill. 

The young woman's lips set themselves a little. " Maybe I don't 
for certain. But there's plenty that do. She'd ought to be druv out 
of town, and you know it as well as I do." 

" No, I don't know it," said the older voice. 

" Well, you ought to. I do," said the other curtly. She went back 
to her work at the sewing-machine, and the old woman leaned forward 
to watch the swift, easy walk. 

The girl's back, strong and supple, swayed a little to the motion of 
her gait, and the braid of thick black hair, tied at the waist with a 
scarlet ribbon, swayed with it. A bunch of scarlet poppies glowed on 
the side of her hat, and a gleam of scarlet marked her throat. 

" Jest like her," muttered the old woman. " Same kind o' high- 
and-mighty walk. Same kind of hair." 

The figure had mounted the hill and disappeared over the brow. It 

105 



106 A Thread of Scarlet 

was not till she had reached the top that she looked back again. The 
village lay huddled at the foot of the steep hill, a stone's throw, it 
seemed. Wet roofs gleamed among the trees and bits of smoke hung in 
the lifting air. 

The girl looked at it, a smile of delight in her eyes. The red lips 
curved softly, as she looked down, and shaped a little smile for them- 
selves. The post-office was the third building to the left of the pond. 
It was there that he had asked her. She looked up again to the great 
clouds drifting and rolling in the sky. Her face held a kind of wonder. 
The world was changed. A bird from a wet bush near by broke into 
song and the thick clover glinted in the fresh light. It was a beau- 
tiful world. She drew a deep breath and looked down at her feet. 
They were heavy with the mud of the road, but the very mud seemed 
glorified. She pushed her toe into it and laughed softly as it yielded 
to the touch and rays of light spread out of it. She had not guessed 
that he cared. And when she turned about from the office window and 
saw him standing there, she had moved to one side to let him pass, and 
he had moved with her and barred the way, lifting his hat. He had 
such beautiful hair, thick and wavy. She looked up again at the 
swelling clouds. Then she smiled to herself and walked on. 

She turned in at the gate of a tumble-down house. Bricks were 
gone from the chimney and blinds hung loose here and there, but the 
path was swept clean and flowers bloomed on either side. A woman 
sitting at one of the windows leaned forward as she came up the 
straight walk between the rows of sweet-Williams and larkspur. Elsie 
looked up and smiled vaguely. 

"Didn't you get my book?" 

The girl stopped short in the path. " I I forgot it." 

The woman nodded good-naturedly. " I thought like enough you 
had when I saw you coming without it. Who'd you see ?" 

The girl had come into the room and was taking off her hat by the 
low table across the room. A rich crimson dyed her face. The hands 
raised to smooth the dark hair on either side of her forehead tried in 
vain to hide it. 

Her mother looked up carelessly. " You must 'a' come up the hill 
terrible fast. You'd better look out. You'll have heart trouble yet 
same as me." 

She got up and waddled comfortably to a pile of books on the table. 
" I'll have to read something over again," she said, turning over the 
books. She picked up a paper-covered one and ran her eye along a page 
or two. " This'll do all right," she said. 

Elsie watched the figure, uncritically, as it rolled back to its chair 
by the window and descended into it. The chair creaked beneath the 
weight. 



A Thread of Scarlet 107 

" I'm real sorry I forgot the book/' said the girl. " I was going 
to go to the library after I'd got the mail, and I and I forgot it." 

" It don't make no difference/' said the woman, " I can read this 
one just as well." Her eye was skimming the page. "There wa'n't 
any mail, was there ?" 

" No." The cheeks did not flush this time, but there was a deep, 
still light in the eyes. She took a book and slate from the table and 
came across to the other window. She sat down opposite her mother, 
facing her, and opened the book. 

Her mother looked up. " You going to do your algebry ?" 

"Yes." 

" It'll be time to get supper pretty soon." 

" Yes, I know it." 

Silence fell between them. The woman was lost in the romance 
before her and the girl's eyes were rested on the problem " A, B, and 
C hire a pasture for $300. A puts in 10 sheep for 16 weeks. B puts in 

3 horses for 9 weeks. And C puts in 2 cows for 13 weeks " Why 

had he asked her out of all the girls? No one had ever asked her 
before. Her thought halted. It did not touch the heavy figure at the 
other window. She had never accused her mother. Though she had 
always known since that day, years ago, when the boys had taunted 
her and she had turned on them and nearly killed one of them. She 
had known then though she had not shaped it even in her deepest 
thought. It was then that she had let down her plaid dress and combed 
her hair smooth and braided it, and swept and scrubbed the house till 
it shone, and weeded the beds on either side the front path, and left 
off a girl's careless romping for the straight, swift walk of a woman. 
She was only twelve then. Now she was sixteen, and the color under 
the clear skin was swift and warm. 

Why had he asked her ? All the girls liked him and he had never 
asked them not one of them not even to go home from meeting with 
them. And now for a whole day the long drive and the climb up 
the mountain and there would be others. They would see that she 
was the one. Her dark head lifted itself proudly and the clear skin 
glowed. 

Her mother, looking up from her book as she turned the page, 
stared at her. "You do grow to look like your Grandma Poppleton," 
she said lazily. 

The girl started and her cheeks flushed. " Do I ?" 

The woman nodded, half -jealously. "You surely do. You're a 
good deal more like her'n I ever was. She always said I wa'n't no more 
kin to her than if I'd been somebody else's child. She was dreadful 
proud and I was always a humbly child fat and kind o' light com- 
plected. Maybe that's why we never got on," 



108 A Thread of Scarlet 

The girl looked at her with fond eyes. " You're pretty now," she 
said wistfully. 

Her mother smoothed her plump wrists and smiled a little. " You 
think so. But I wa'n't the kind o' child she wanted. She'd 'a' wor- 
shipped you." Her eyes took in the straight figure with a little envy. 
" You're the kind she wanted." 

" Didn't she ever see me ?" asked Elsie. 

The woman shook her head. " She died the winter you was born. 
She took things hard always did. One of the tragic kind not easy- 
going, like me." The chair creaked comfortably as it rocked. "And 
you're the same kind making mountains out of molehills, and kind o' 
tempting things to happen. You won't ever be very happy, I don't 
believe, any more'n she was." 

The girl was leaning forward, her lips parted, and a listening look 
in her dark face. The knell of her soul sounded, faint and far, and 
stern lines shaped themselves under the soft contour of her face. A 
shadow crossed the window, and she started, looking up with a swift 
breath. " It's father," she said. " He's come with the cows." 

" Yes, it's time to get supper." 

She put her book and slate on the table and hurried into the kitchen. 
Presently the sound of her voice came back singing softly to itself 
and the crackling of fresh fire in the stove. When the woman put down 
her book and came out a man stood by the outer door looking out. He 
had the face of a prophet, stern and uncouth, with a touch of shame 
in its depths. He looked at her sombrely, without speaking, and they 
sat down at the table. 

"You going to use Nellie to-morrow, Abner?" asked the woman 
comfortably. 

" No." 

" I kind o' thought Elsie 'n' I'd like to have her, after school, to go 
over to Clayton." 

" I don't want her used to-morrow at all." 

She looked at him for a moment. " What's the matter with her ?" 

" Nothing." He chewed in silence. " I want her to rest. She's got 
to go forty miles next day." 

The woman leaned forward. " Where to ?" 

" Over to Halleck's Mountain and back. I've let her for the day 
to Hutton." 

The woman's lips paled. " To Sam Hutton ?" 

" No, to Harlow the young fellow." 

The girl woke from a dream and looked swiftly from one to the 
other. A rich color filled her face. 

They were not looking at her. 

"They must be going to have a picnic," said the woman slowly. 



A Thread of Scarlet 109 

"You might 'a' kept Nellie for Elsie and me to go." The voice had 
no complaint. 

"Did they ask ye?" 

The stern note was lost on her. " Seems 's if Elsie ought to have 
a chance to go. She never goes anywhere." 

They glanced at the girl. Her face was alight and her throat 
swelled a little, like a bird's before breaking into song. " I am going," 
she said. 

" Who asked ye ?" It was her father's voice. 

" Harlow Hutton." The words trilled themselves. 

The man and woman looked at each other. It was the first time 
their eyes had met. " Good God !" said the man. The words broke 
from him. 

She frowned at him. " When'd he ask you ?" she said. She was 
looking at the girl with a new interest. 

" To-day. When I went down for the mail." 

The man pushed back his chair from the table and rose heavily. 
" I'm going down to the store," he said. 

She looked at him critically. "You've got to put on your other 
clothes." 

He went into the bedroom and the woman returned to her seat by 
the front window. When he passed it she leaned out. 

" Abner." 

"What?" 

" Don't you go to spoilin' her good time." 

His face was set straight ahead. " I shall tell him," he said. 

" Don't you s'pose he knows ?" She was fingering the paper-covered 
book in her lap and looking down at it. 

He turned on her fiercely. " Do you s'pose he'd asked her if he'd 
known ?" The tone shrivelled her. 

He strode from the yard and down the long hill, his heavy boots 
splashing through the half-dried mud and his stern face set before him. 

The group of loungers looked up as he entered the store. 

"How do, Abner?" 

He pushed by them to the other side of the store, and a young man 
came forward smiling. " Good-evening, Mr. Baynor. Is there some- 
thing I can do for you?" 

Abner looked at him for a moment, dazed, his lips half-parted. 
" I want some gingham/' he said at last " shirting ; kind o' blue and 
white, I guess." 

They passed into the other part of the store and the voices of the 
loungers came faintly to them. 

The young man threw down a piece of cloth on the counter, unroll- 
ing it swiftly. "How'll that do?" he said. "Fifteen cents a yard. 



110 A Thread of Scarlet 

Here's some for eighteen, a little better, but not so pretty." The heavy 
roll thumped on the counter as he twirled it and spread it out. His 
eyes were fixed on the man's face. 

Abner looked up slowly. " I've changed my mind about letting you 
hev' Nellie," he said. 

The young man's face fell. " What's the matter ?" he asked. 

" I didn't know ye'd asked Elsie when I let her to you." 

" I hadn't, but I meant to." The blue eyes broke into a quick smile. 
" I'd planned to have the nicest girl and the nicest horse in town, Mr. 
Baynor." 

The man's face softened a little. He looked up and met the blue 
eyes. They were honest and straightforward. He glanced away, finger- 
ing the gingham awkwardly. " I thought I ought to tell ye about 
her " His voice faltered. 

"About Nellie? Oh, I know she's high-spirited. But I'll have 
Elsie to help me manage her. She can do it, they say." He spoke half- 
laughingly to hide a note of anxiety. 

"Yes, she can manage her." The man regarded him sombrely. 
" How long you going to be here ?" he asked suddenly. 

"Here? In town?" 

" Yes." 

The young man's face grew grave. " I am going away next week." 

The other nodded. " I'd heard suthin' of the kind. You going to 
stay?" 

" Yes." 

"Where is it?" 

" My uncle's store in New York. He offered me the place when I 
left college. But I thought I'd better help father. He seemed to want 
me to. But lately he's been talking the other way, and last night he 
said I'd better go." 

Abner was studying the ingenuous face, his own in the shadow. 
" D'he know you was going to take Elsie to the Mountain ?" 

"Yes." 

Abner's face worked strangely. 

The young man waited a minute. A hush had fallen on the group 
in the other room. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, " I 
don't know why you don't want me to take her, Mr. Baynor, nor why 
my father didn't. But I know that I'm honest. She's only a child, 
and I'd meant to wait. But before God, she's the woman I shall marry 
some day." 

The man before him staggered a little. He clutched at the counter 
and his lips parted. " Marry her ! Good God, man, you can't marry 
her ! She's your half -sister !" he said hoarsely. 

The young man's face grew white. " You lie !" he said. 



A Thread of Scarlet 111 

" Your father and hers is the same man," retorted Abner. 

The other stared at him. Through the silence low voices droned 
from the room beyond. " Then who are you ?" said the young man at 
last. His throat was dry and his face worked. 

"I am the man she calls father," said Abner briefly. "Til take 
two yards of that gingham." He laid a gaunt finger on the cheaper 
piece. 

The young man cut it off and did it up for him. He took the money 
and made change, a stunned look in his clear eyes as if someone had 
struck him. 

With the roll of gingham in his hand Abner went out. As he toiled 
up the steep hill he stopped in the darkness and wiped the great drops 
from his forehead. " I hed to tell him," he muttered, " I hed to tell 
him. I couldn't tell her. 'Twould V killed her." He had known 
from the first that the child that was coming was not his, and the 
knowledge had made him very tender of her. 

When he came into the lighted room he threw the parcel on the 
table and passed into the room beyond. 

"What did you get, father?" asked Elsie, untying it with swift 
fingers. Her face glowed with fresh, clear color, and her eyes were 
stars. 

Abner had not looked at her. 

" Gingham !" she laughed, unrolling it on the table. " Look, 
mother ! What's it for, father ?" She stepped to the door of the dark 
room beyond and looked in. 

" Some shirts for me," said Abner out of the darkness. 

She turned back, her eyes overflowing with laughter in the soft 
light. " Shirts !" she said to her mother. She tossed it out to its full 
length. "Shirts! Two yards! There isn't enough for one!" She 
laughed softly. " I shall keep it for an apron. Can I have it for an 
apron, father ?" she called to him. 

There was no response from the dark room. 

"Don't bother him," said her mother, "he's gone to bed, like 
enough. Pretty gingham, ain't it?" 

II. 

THE girl had come out of the post-office. She stood for a moment 
looking in either direction. Then she turned towards the long hill. 
She had not expected to see him to-day. She had only stopped at the 
office on the way home from school. If he had happened to be there 
in the office or at the store door she would have bowed to him. But 
there was no need. She lifted her head proudly and saw him. He 
was coming towards her, along the walk, with his father. Her head 
was like a flower on its stalk and her heart sang. 



112 A Thread of Scarlet 

When he was opposite her, he lifted his hat. She swayed a little. 
What was it in his eyes? Pity loathing love? No one should 
look at her like that ! The short man beside him, with gray mustache 
and goatee, nodded to her curtly as they passed. Her soul shrank a 
little and shivered in its beating. " You'd better take the seven-thirty, 
Harl." The words caught at her ear and followed her up the long hill. 
Why had he looked at her like that ? Why had he not stopped to speak ? 
Why should he take the seven-thirty? Were they not to go to-morrow 
to Halleck's Mountain? She caught her breath with a quiver of the 
lip, and turned into the straight, flower-bordered path. 

" Can't you hurry a little, Elsie ?" It was her mother's plaintive 
voice at the window. She quickened her pace and looked up inquiringly 
towards the window. 

" He says we can have Nellie to go to Clayton, after all," said her 
mother. 

The girl looked at her doubtingly. " Doesn't he want her to rest 
for to-morrow?" 

"He says we can take her," said her mother evasively. "You're 
late." 

" Yes, I came by the office. I'm all ready. Is she harnessed ?" 

" She's tied to the shed." 

The girl untied the horse and drove around to the horse-block. The 
touch of the taut reins in her fingers stilled her swift heart and brought 
her back to herself. 

" Steady, Nell !" she said. The quivering horse quieted down, and 
she held out a hand to her mother. " Quick !" 

Her mother climbed heavily in, puffing a little. She had on a 
wide muslin hat, trimmed with pink flowers, and bits of lace at her 
plump wrists. Elsie smiled at her approvingly. " It looks as good as 
new," she said. 

Her mother nodded as she settled herself in the seat. Her breath 
came in soft pants. " I made it over," she said. " Took off all the 
stuff and ironed it and shirred it on again." Her head bridled a little 
under its light cover. 

Elsie laughed softly and tightened her hold on the reins. " It's the 
third time this year." 

" The least bit of wetting spoils it," complained her mother. " I 
can't help its raining." 

Elsie looked up at the clear, floating clouds. " No danger to-day," 
she said ; " it couldn't rain if it tried." 

Her mother shook her head doubtingly. " You can't ever tell," she 
said. " The strangest things happen. If I was alone, I should know 
it wouldn't rain. But seems, sometimes, as if you kind o' tempted 
it to. Your Grandma Poppleton was just the same," she went on 



A Thread of Scarlet 113 

plaintively, "stirring things up as long as she lived. Now I can do 
things real risky things and nothing comes of it." Her gaze floated 
over the still, country fields. " Sometimes I wish something would 
happen," she said pensively. 

The girl made no response. Her dark face had resumed its stern 
lines and a brooding look filled the eyes, a look of vague dread. They 
drove on in silence, through the flecking shadows of the road, into the 
stretch of deep pine wood and out again into the sunshine. Her 
thoughts followed the look in his eyes. What was it? Why should 
he despise her? What right had he? Suddenly the blood flamed high 
in her face and she moved a little away from the plump figure beside 
her. She glanced at it askance, her eyes wide with questioning. Dis- 
belief and insight struggled in them. The terror filled them. This 
was what they had meant those boys. No one had taunted her since 
then no one had dared. They had only left her alone. Her head 
drooped forward on her breast. And he had heard? She half turned 
to the figure beside her. Then she shrank back upon herself. What 
could she ask her her mother! A sound crossed the silence a wood- 
bird calling softly through the cool, green light. 

Then her mother broke in. She did not like the silences. The girl 
responded in broken snatches. They floated on the undercurrent of 
her thought. It was not till they were coming home that she roused 
herself. They had come to the fork of the roads and her mother 
touched the reins lightly. " Let's go home by the store/' she said coax- 
ingly, " I didn't have near enough lace for my sleeves." 

Without a word, the girl obeyed. Her head lifted itself. She drove 
swiftly along the level road, between full-branched alders and shim- 
mering birches. She would see him again see him see him. The 
hot blood of sixteen mounted to her throat and beat in her temples. 
Over it the guard of ages kept watch. It coiled itself to protect her. 
He should not look at her again like that. 

Swiftly they turned the curve that led to the store. The even beat 
of the horse's hoofs sounded on the road. A young man standing 
near the store door looked up quickly. Another sound mingled with the 
even hoofs, and he turned his head to the long hill. Half-way down its 
length a red mass thundered steam and motion and weight the new 
automobile from Stockton! 

The girl had grown pale to the lips. " Jump, mother !" she said. 
She held the reins in firm hand and reached out for the whip. 

" I can't, Elsie, I'm too heavy." She sank back panting. 

" Jump, I tell you ! Nothing can hold her !" 

The young man dashed forward and caught at the rearing bit. He 
swung on it heavily, from side to side. The maddened head reared 
itself, and hoofs struck at him, like brushwood, and trampled him. 
The wheels jolted where he lay. 



114 A Thread of Scarlet 

" Mother/' the girl's voice was steady, " she's heading for the 
dam. You must jump !" 

Slowly the weight raised itself and sank back. " I cant jump 
dear." 

The girl's hands upon the reins were like iron. The veins stood out 
on them, and bits of blood and foam came tossing back and flecked her 
face and blinded her. Her touch was a feather's weight on the rush 
of fury. With a ring of sharp iron the hoofs struck the low parapet 
of the dam. A dozen feet were running to help her. The automobile 
hung poised on the hill, held in its course. There was a breathless 
rocking, a woman's scream, a whirl of wheels and blank space. 

When they reached the parapet and looked down they saw, at the 
foot of the dam, the wagon, by some miracle of chance, standing 
upright, and in it the woman, crouched in the bottom, gazing blankly 
at the wall of falling water and wiping the drops from her face. 

Half-way down the stone coping, where a young maple shot out its 
strong arm, the figure of the girl had been caught from its seat. It 
hung, midway, the scarlet ribbon on her hair floating like a blossom 
in the leaves. They knew she was dead before they reached her. Her 
head was limp on its stem, and her hands were relaxed. 

They bore her up the hill, past the store, where, on the counter, 
stretched another figure, still and straight up the hill, past the little 
house with its lace-edged curtains and the old face peering out between 
over the brow of the hill, with the village huddled beneath, roofs and 
chimneys up the straight, flower-bordered path at last, to her home. 

The two burials were the same day. And behind each coffin walked 
a man alone. The short, stern man, with the gray mustache and 
goatee, followed his son to the grave his only son and child. They 
buried him by his mother, who had died fifteen years before of heart- 
break, the neighbors said. 

Abner walked alone. The woman lay in a darkened room, her 
breath coming and going in soft, quick pants. 

" Die ?" said the village doctor, when they pressed him. " No, she'll 
not die. She's not the kind that dies. She's been a good deal shook 
up and bruised and scared, but she'll get well." So in her darkened 
room the woman asked faintly for a glass of water, and drank it, and 
wept a little, and crept back to life. 

And out in the sunshine, among the graves, the birds sang and the 
fresh-turned earth was sweet in the wind. Daisies nodded on their 
stems, and the clovers lifted full, crimson stalks, and bobolinks lighted 
among them, atilt, and burst into song. And the light on the girl's 
grave was even and serene. The afternoon light glowed among the 
graves. They stretched away to left and right and gathered her in 
among them. For the earth is sweet at last. 



A DELAYED HERITAGE 

By Eleanor H. Porter 



WHEN Hester was two years old a wheezy hand-organ would 
set her eyes to sparkling and her cheeks to dimpling, and 
when she was twenty the " Maiden's Prayer/' played by a 
school-girl, would fill her soul with ecstasy. 

To Hester all the world seemed full of melody. Even the clouds 
in the sky sailed slowly along in time to a stately march in her brain, 
or danced to the tune of a merry schottish that sounded for her ears 
alone. And when she saw the sunset from the hill behind her home 
there was always music then low and tender if the colors were soft 
and pale-tinted, grand and awful if the wind blew shreds and tatters 
of storm-clouds across a purpling sky. All this was within Hester ; but 
without - 

There had been but little room in Hester's life for music. Her days 
were an endless round of dish-washing and baby-tending first for her 
mother, later for herself. There had been no money for music lessons, 
no time for piano practice. Hester's childish heart had swelled with 
bitter envy whenever she saw the coveted music-roll swinging from 
some playmate's hand. At that time her favorite " make believe" had 
been to play at going for a music lesson, with a carefully modelled 
roll of brown paper suspended by a string from her fingers. 

Hester was forty now. Two sturdy boys and a girl of nine gave 
her three hungry mouths to feed and six active feet to keep in holeless 
stockings. Her husband had been dead two years, and life was a 
struggle and a problem. The boys she trained rigorously, giving just 
measure of love and care ; but the girl ah, Penelope should have that 
for which she herself had so longed. Penelope should take music 
lessons ! 

During all those nine years since Penelope had come to her fre- 
quent dimes and quarters, with an occasional half-dollar, had found 
their way into an old stone jar on the top shelf in the pantry. It had 
been a dreary and pinching economy that made possible this hoard 
of silver, and its effects had been only too visible in Hester's turned and 
mended garments, to say nothing of her wasted figure and colorless 
cheeks. Penelope was nine now, and Hester deemed it a fitting time 
to begin the spending of her treasured wealth. 

First, the instrument: it must be a rented one, of course. Hester 

115 



116 A Delayed Heritage 

went about the labor of procuring it in a state of exalted bliss that was 
in a measure compensation for her long years of sacrifice. 

Her task did not prove to be a hard one. The Widow Butler, about 
to go South for the winter, was more than glad to leave her piano in 
Hester's tender care, and the dollar a month rent which Hester at first 
insisted upon paying was finally cut in half, much to the Widow But- 
ler's satisfaction and Hester's grateful delight. This much accom- 
plished, Hester turned her steps towards the white cottage wherein 
lived Margaret Gale, the music teacher. 

Miss Gale, careful, conscientious, but of limited experience, placed 
her services at the disposal of all who could pay the price thirty-five 
cents an hour ; and she graciously accepted the name of her new pupil, 
entering " Penelope Martin" on her books for Saturday mornings at 
ten o'clock. Then Hester went home to tell her young daughter of the 
bliss in store for her. 

Strange to say, she had cherished the secret of the old stone jar all 
these years, and had never told Penelope of her high destiny. She pic- 
tured now the child's joy, unconsciously putting her own nine-year-old, 
music-hungry self in Penelope's place. 
" Penelope," she called gently. 

There was a scurrying of light feet down the uncarpeted back stairs, 
and Penelope, breathless, rosy, and smiling, appeared in the doorway. 

"Yes, mother." 

" Come with me, child," said Hester, her voice sternly solemn in 
her effort to keep from shouting her glad tidings before the time. 

The woman led the way through the kitchen and dining-room and 
threw open the parlor door, motioning her daughter into the sombre 
room. The rose-color faded from Penelope's cheeks. 

"Why, mother! what what is it? Have I been naughty?" she 
faltered. 

Mrs. Martin's tense muscles relaxed and she laughed hysterically. 

" No, dearie, no ! I I have something to tell you," she answered, 
drawing the child to her and smoothing back the disordered hair. 
" What would you rather have more than anything else in the world ?" 
she asked ; then, unable to keep her secret longer, she burst out, " I've 
got it, Penelope ! oh, I've got it !" 

The little girl broke from the restraining arms and danced wildly 
around the room. 

" Mother ! Eeally ? As big as me ? And will it talk say ' papa' 
and 'mamma,' you know ?" 

"What!" 

Something in Hester's dismayed face brought the prancing feet to 
a sudden stop. 

" It it's a doll, isn't it ?" the child stammered. 



A Delayed Heritage 117 

Hester's hands grew cold. 

" A a doll \" she gasped. 

Penelope nodded the light gone from her eyes. 

For a moment the woman was silent; then she threw back her 
head with a little shake and laughed forcedly. 

"A doll! why, child, it's as much nicer than a doll as as you 
can imagine. It's a piano, dear a pi-a-no I" she repeated impressively, 
all the old enthusiasm coming back at the mere mention of the magic 
word. 

" Oh !" murmured Penelope, with some show of interest. 

" And you're to learn to play on it I" 

" Oh-h !" said Penelope again, but with less interest. 

"To play on it! Just think, dear, how fine that will be!" The 
woman's voice was growing wistful. 

" Take lessons ? Like Mamie, you mean ?" 

"Yes, dear." 

"But she has to practise and " 

"Of course," interrupted Hester eagerly. "That's the best part 
of it the practice." 

" Mamie don't think so," observed Penelope dubiously. 

" Then Mamie can't know," rejoined Hester with decision, bravely 
combating the chill that was creeping over her. " Come, dear, help 
mother to clear a space, so we may be ready when the piano comes," 
she finished, crossing the room and moving a chair to one side. 

But when the piano finally arrived Penelope was as enthusiastic 
as even her mother could wish her to be, and danced about it with 
proud joy. It was after the child had left the house, however, that 
Hester came with reverent step into the darkened room and feasted 
her eyes to her heart's content on the reality of her dreams. 

Half -fearfully she extended her hand and softly pressed the tip of 
her fourth finger to one of the ivory keys; then with her thumb she 
touched another a little below. The resulting dissonance gave her a 
vague unrest, and she gently slipped her thumb along until the har- 
mony of a major sixth filled her eyes with quick tears. 

" Oh, if I only could !" she whispered, and pressed the chord again, 
rapturously listening to the vibrations as they died away in the quiet 
room. Then she tiptoed out and closed the door behind her. 

During the entire hour of that first Saturday morning lesson Mrs. 
Martin hoverfd near the parlor door, her hands and feet refusing to 
perform their accustomed duties. The low murmur of the teacher's 
voice and an occasional series of notes were to Hester the mysterious 
rites before a sacred shrine, and she listened in reverent awe. When 
Miss Gale had left the house, Mrs. Martin hurried to Penelope's side. 

"How did it go? What did she say? Play me what she taught 
you," she urged excitedly. 



118 A Delayed Heritage 

Penelope tossed a consequential head and gave her mother a scornful 
glance. 

" Pooh ! mother, the first lesson ain't much. I've got to practise." 

" Of course/' acknowledged Hester in conciliation ; " but how ? 
what?" 

" That and that and from there to there," said Penelope, indi- 
cating with a pink forefinger certain portions of the page before her. 

" Oh !" breathed Hester, regarding the notes with eager eyes. Then, 
timidly, " Play that one." 

With all the importance of absolute certainty Penelope struck c. 

" And that one." 

Penelope's second finger hit /. 

" And that and that and that," swiftly demanded Hester. 

Penelope's cheeks grew pink, but her fingers did not falter. Hester 
drew a long breath. 

" Oh, how quick you've learned 'em !" she exclaimed. 

Her daughter hesitated a tempted moment. 

" Well I I learned the notes in school," she finally acknowledged, 
looking sideways at her mother. 

But even this admission did not lessen for Hester the halo of glory 
about Penelope's head. She drew another long breath. 

"But what else did Miss Gale say? Tell me everything every 
single thing," she reiterated hungrily. 

That was not only Penelope's first lesson, but Hester's. The child, 
flushed and important with her sudden promotion from pupil to teacher, 
scrupulously repeated each point in the lesson, and the woman, humble 
and earnestly attentive, listened with bated breath. Then Penelope, 
still airily consequential, practised for almost an hour. 

Monday, when the children were at school, Hester stole into the 
parlor and timidly seated herself at the piano. 

" I think I am almost sure I could do it," she whispered, studying 
with eager eyes the open book on the music-rack. " I I'm going to 
try, anyhow !" she finished resolutely. 

And Hester did try, not only then, but on Tuesday, Wednesday, and 
thus until Saturday that Saturday which brought with it a second 
lesson. 

The weeks passed swiftly after that. Hester's tasks seemed lighter 
and her burdens less grievous since there was now that ever-present 
refuge the piano. It was marvellous what a multitude of headaches 
and heartaches five minutes of scales, even, could banish; and when 
actual presence at the piano was impossible, there were yet memory 
and anticipation left her. 

For two of these weeks Penelope practised her allotted hour with 
a patience born of the novelty of the experience. The third week the 



A Delayed Heritage 119 

" hour" dwindled perceptibly, and the fourth week it was scarcely 
thirty minutes long. 

" Come, dearie, don't forget your practice/' Hester sometimes cau- 
tioned anxiously. 

" Oh dear suz me !" Penelope would sigh, and Hester would watch 
her with puzzled eyes as she disconsolately pulled out the piano-stool. 

" Penelope," she finally threatened one day, " I shall certainly stop 
your lessons you don't half appreciate them." But she was shocked 
and frightened at the relief that so quickly showed in her young daugh- 
ter's eyes. Hester never made that threat again, for if Penelope's 
lessons stopped 

As the weeks lengthened into months, bits of harmony and snatches 
of melody became more and more frequent in Penelope's lessons, and 
the " exercises" were supplemented by occasional " pieces" simple, yet 
boasting a name. But when Penelope played " Down by the Mill," one 
heard only the notes accurate, rhythmic, an excellent imitation ; when 
Hester played it, one might catch the whir of the wheel, the swish of 
the foaming brook, and almost the spicy smell of the sawdust, so vividly 
was the scene brought to mind. 

Many a time, now, the old childhood dreams came back to Hester, 
and her fingers would drift into tender melodies and minor chords not 
on the printed page, until all the stifled love and longing of those 
dreary, colorless years of the past found voice at her finger-tips. 

The stately marches and the rollicking dances of the cloud-music 
came easily at her beck and call now grave, now gay; now slow and 
measured, now tripping in weird harmonies and gay melodies. 

Hester's blood quickened and her cheeks grew pink. Her eyes lost 
their yearning look and her lips their wistful curves. 

Every week she faithfully took her music lesson of Penelope, and 
she practised only that when the children were about. It was when 
they were at school and she was alone that the great joy of this new- 
found treasure of improvising came to her, and she could set free her 
heart and soul on the ivory keys. 

She was playing thus one night forgetting time, self, and that 
Penelope would soon be home from school when the child entered the 
house and stopped, amazed, in the parlor doorway. As the last mellow 
note died into silence Penelope dropped her books and burst into tears. 

" Why, darling, what is it ?" cried Hester. " What can be the 
matter ?" 

" I I don't know," faltered Penelope, looking at her mother with 
startled eyes. " Why why didn't you tell me ?" 

"Tell you?" 

" That that you could p-play that way ! I I didn't know," she 
wailed with another storm of sobs, rushing into her mother's arms. 



120 The Sunken Fleet 

Hester's clasp tightened about the quivering little form and her 
eyes grew luminous. 

"Dearie," she began very softly, "there was once a little girl a 
little girl like you. She was very, very poor, and all her days were full 
of work. She had no piano, no music lessons but, oh, how she longed 
for them ! The trees and the grass and the winds and the flowers sung 
all day in her ears, but she couldn't tell what they said. By and by, 
after many, many years, this little girl grew up and a dear little baby 
daughter came to her. She was still very, very poor, but she saved 
and scrimped, and scrimped and saved, for she meant that this baby 
girl should not long and long for the music that never came. She 
should have music lessons/' 

"Was it me?" whispered Penelope, with tremulous lips. 

Hester drew a long breath. 

" Yes, dear. I was the little girl long ago, and you are the little girl 
to-day. And when the piano came, Penelope, I found in it all those 
songs that the winds and the trees used to sing to me. Now the sun 
shines brighter and the birds sing sweeter and all this beautiful world 
is yours all yours. Oh Penelope, aren't you glad ?" 

Penelope raised a tear-wet face and looked into her mother's shining 
eyes. 

" Glad ? oh mother !" she cried fervently ; then very softly, 
" Mother do you think could you teach me ! oh, I want to play just 
like that just like that !" 



THE SUNKEN FLEET 

BY FRANCIS HALLEY NEWTON 

SAILOES and men well-versed in deep-sea lore 
Tell us so fathomless the ocean's bed 
That sunken ships ne'er reach its depths, instead, 
They float and moulder, drifting evermore, 
Caught in some unknown current, far from shore ; 
Strange fleet, whose sailors are the ghostly dead, 
Sad fleet, o'er whom so many tears are shed, 
Helmless, distressed, unsped by sail or oar. 
Unhailed, unless there comes a moaning cry 
From broken wreck to wreck, across the dark, 
From some tall Spaniard to Phoenician bark, 
Or high-prowed Koman galley, passing by, 
Dejected; or a Viking giveth hail 
To that lost schooner of last Winter's gale. 



THE GHOST IN THE 
RED SHIRT 

By B. M. Bower 



THE proper way to begin this story would be to assure the reader, 
first of all, that I have never believed in ghosts ; that is the way 
ghost-stories usually begin, I think. Also, I should say that 
what I am about to relate is perfectly true but I won't begin it like 
that. As a matter of fact, I don't care much whether you believe me 
or not, and I always did believe in ghosts at least, I always hoped they 
were truer than Santa Glaus, and that some day I should see one. 

Aunt Jane but I don't want to begin with Aunt Jane either : she 
always did begin everything in my life, ever since I can remember, and 
she sha'n't begin this story. I don't mean her even to know I wrote it 
she'd only say I'm crazy, and I'm not. 

This is the way it all happened, and, mind, I don't care whether you 
believe it or not. It happened, and your belief or disbelief won't alter 
that one important fact. And he was the dearest old ghost but wait 
till I start at the beginning, as I should have done before. 

We had gone across the lake that evening in the little sail-boat, 
the New Woman. Jack named it, you might know; he said she was 
full of whims and it took a man to hold her nose in the wind Jack's 
awfully sarcastic. 

There were just six of us Aunt Jane and Mabel, Cousin Jack, Pro- 
fessor Goldburn, and Clifford Wilton. Clifford and I weren't on very 
friendly terms. We had been engaged, though Aunt Jane didn't sus- 
pect it. But it was all over, and my sweet little ruby ring was lying 
somewhere off Weir Point, where Clifford threw it one day but this is 
a ghost-story. 

Nothing happened during the sail except that my hat blew away and 
Mabel hinted that it wasn't an accident that I liked to show off my 
hair. I said I didn't show off any hair but what I might justly call my 
own, and, of course, that made Mabel mad angry, I mean. Aunt Jane 
scolded me, as usual: it's easy to tell which niece has the money. 

We landed to visit a cave in the cliff, and Mabel and Clifford flirted 
outrageously. It wasn't a bit interesting I mean the cave. The flirt- 
ing didn't worry me : I was particularly nice to Professor Goldburn 
so nice that Aunt Jane called me her dear child twice, and the Professor 

121 



122 The Ghost in the Red Shirt 

came near offering me his heart and hand. Jack saved me: he called 
us all to the boat just as the Professor got fairly warmed to his sub- 
ject. Of course, I ran as soon as Jack called, leaving the Professor to 
come nipping along behind I hate fat men, anyway. 

A storm was muttering up from the horizon, and the oily, ugly 
clouds were almost over our heads before we pushed off, on account of 
Mabel and Clifford loitering along the cliff path and acting that silly ! 

The lake was smooth as glass and ink black, and the look of it made 
me shiver, with four miles of it between us and home. 

Jack raised the sail, but it hung limp, so there was nothing for it 
but to row. Jack and Clifford went to work, while I steered the boat. 
Clifford spoke once to me : we ignored each other, as a rule. 

"Better keep her close in. We'll try to round this point and run 
into the cove before she strikes." 

" If we don't," remarked Jack cheerfully, " she'll flop us ; and, oh 
mister, she won't do a thing to us I" 

I rather thought "she" would do several things to us, but I didn't 
stop to argue the point there wasn't time. I don't know just how it 
came about, but Jack was right she " flopped" us. 

We weren't far from shore, so the upset wasn't very serious. The 
water was so shallow we could easily wade ashore, though Mabel called 
for help, and, of course, it was Clifford who rescued her from water no 
deeper than our bathtub ! It is incredible, the foolishness of that girl ! 

I was first to climb the bank, and when I had watched the others 
land I just sat down in the wind and the rain and laughed. (Mabel says 
I will probably laugh at my own funeral; I'm positive I could have 
laughed at hers just then.) The idea of a great, overgrown girl like 
her (she weighs a hundred and fifty pounds if she weighs an ounce) 
sobbing on a young man's shoulder ! and the curl all out of her hair, 
and the complexion washed off her face in streaks. It's a wonder she 
didn't turn Clifford sick; but, then, men show dreadfully poor taste 
at times. I don't suppose I was very entrancing myself just then, but, 
thank goodness, my complexion will bear washing ! 

The New Woman reached the shore, upside down, almost as soon as 
we did, and my old golf-cape, that Aunt Jane insists I shall carry with 
me always in the boat, dangled on a wave-washed willow. Jack waded 
in and rescued it and Aunt Jane's little gray shawl (her green um- 
brella's gone forever, for which I am very thankful). Mabel's sailor- 
hat washed ashore while we stood there, and Clifford got that. 

Then Jack remembered that there was an old cabin near there, and 
we found what had once been a well-trodden path leading back from 
the shore into the woods. We followed it dismally, with the lightning 
to guide us. 

Jack led the way, reciting: "It was night! The vivid lightnings 



The Ghost in the Red Shirt 123 

flashed athwart the vaulted sky and shook their fiery darts upon the 
shuddering earth. The elements were in wild commotion!" or some- 
thing like that. I think he got it out of a " Penny Dreadful." 

Just as Jack said " commotion," with a fine roll upon the word, 
the Professor caught his toe upon a root, and down he went and I 
laughed. Aunt Jane didn't call me her dear child that time; she 
said, " Zel-1-l-ah !" But I don't care. Jack laughed too, though he 
did pretend he was just coughing. 

We found the cabin, half hidden by the tall burdocks and wild rose- 
bushes. The door-step was sunken and covered deep with the leaves of 
many summers. 

Jack threw open the door and cried " Spooks !" in a sepulchral 
tone which gave me a chill, but when Mabel gave a squawk and caught 
Clifford's arm I just pushed Mr. Jack headlong over the threshold and 
went on in. 

The lightning glared in at the open door and showed us a great, old 
fireplace, with a huge pile of dry wood stacked in one corner, and there 
were some chairs and a table, and that was all. 

Jack swooped down upon the fireplace with a shout, and we had a 
roaring fire in no time, for Jack's matches were dry, for a wonder. 
Goodness knows he paid enough for his matchbox; Aunt Jane said it 
was a scandalous price, but it was worth every cent of it to have dry 
matches that night. We huddled around the fire, half frozen from our 
ducking. I spread out my old golf-cape to dry, so that I might have 
some good of the old thing I had lugged it around all summer and 
hadn't used it once. Aunt Jane and I took down our hair and wrung 
out the water. Mabel wouldn't; she said hers wasn't very wet and 
that settled the switch question in my mind, and from the way Jack 
grinned I know what he thought about it and Aunt Jane trying to 
make a match between those two! 

Professor Goldburn backed up to the fire, rubbed his pudgy hands 
together behind him, and ogled till I felt downright sick, but I wouldn't 
show it. He had lost his eyeglass and the curl was out of his mustache 
and his collar all crumpled, and that oily smile didn't seem to match the 
rest of him a bit. I don't care if he is worth a million or more, I just 
think he's horrid! I smiled back at him just to see Clifford scowl. 
But Clifford wasn't looking my way. He was whispering something to 
Mabel and had his back turned to me both of which I consider rude 
in anybody, no matter who does it. 

Then Jack got to wondering what was in the next room, for there 
appeared to be two, and he and I went to explore. 

The room had been a bedroom, I think. It was bare of everything 
but dust and cobwebs, and was so small it didn't take us long Jack 
only burned one match and two fingers. 



124 The Ghost in the Red Shirt 

After that we sat around the fire and listened to the storm, and 
tried to think we weren't famished, which was hard to do, seeing we had 
had nothing since luncheon. 

Aunt Jane worried over Uncle John and how anxious he'd be, but I 
was rather glad for him. He'd lectured me awfully that morning be- 
cause I wasn't nice and dignified, like Mabel. I hoped he'd remember 
it with remorse. 

Jack sang coon-songs and even did a cake-walk. I got up and helped 
him in that, just to shock Mabel. She thinks cake-walking is very 
unladylike, and always looks scandalized when I begin anything of the 
kind. 

Aunt Jane to punish us, I think started the Professor going on 
his pet microbes, and once he was started, no one else had any show 
whatever. He droned on about bacilli and other horrors, and gravely 
assured us that old cabin was undoubtedly swarming with awful- 
sounding germs. Fancy being married to such a man ugh ! 

Aunt Jane presently fell asleep, and as Clifford took to staring 
moodily into the fire and not seeming to remember anything but his 
thoughts, Mabel soon followed Aunt Jane's example. I was hungry 
and cross, and even the Professor couldn't talk me to sleep. 

I wrapped my golf -cape around me and cuddled in an old armchair 
in front of the fireplace, with Jack and the Professor upon either side 
of me and Clifford on a little bench against the wall. Aunt Jane and 
Mabel were on the side opposite Clifford, though they, being asleep, 
do not count. 

I was beginning to hold my eyes open with some effort, when some- 
thing roused me, and I sat up straight and listened. The storm was 
still beating furiously against the cabin walls, but another sound was 
distinctly audible. There could be no mistake someone was walking 
back and forth in the other room. 

We looked at one another, and I admit a creepy feeling went up my 
spine just at first. 

Clifford caught up a brand from the fire and started for the closed 
door, and we all followed him. When we crowded into the doorway 
we saw nothing but the dust and the cobwebs and the dancing glare of 
Clifford's torch upon the rough board walls. It was such a bare little 
room that I think we all felt a bit ashamed of our nerves. 

The footsteps had ceased, and only the wind and rain, beating upon 
the low roof, could be heard. 

" It's the wind," said Clifford, pointing his torch downward to 
freshen the blaze. 

" It was the water dripping from some branch upon the roof," said 
the Professor and that was the most sensible remark he had made that 
night. 



The Ghost in the Red Shirt 125 

" More likely it's rats/' put in Jack. " Can't be a ghost they're 
noted chiefly for the noise they don't make." 

I pinched Jack soundly for mentioning ghosts, and spoke as firmly 
as I could with my teeth chattering so, 

" It's your microbes, Professor." 

Jack snickered, and the Professor rolled his eyes reproachfully at 
me. 

Then we all went back to the fire and Jack threw on more wood. 
The Professor went on talking, only this time it was about telepathy, 
or something of that sort. And soon we heard that heavy, measured 
tread, as before. I must say I didn't much like the sound of it coming 
like that, with no feet to make the thing seem reasonable, and with 
no ghost to make it creepily interesting, but the men appeared to ignore 
the tramping, so I tried to not care. 

Jack fell to smoking cigarettes, seeing Aunt Jane was asleep, and 
Clifford poked the ashes into fanciful little heaps and got creases in his 
forehead. He did look glum and no mistake, but I couldn't see that he 
was afraid, or anything like that. 

After awhile my eyes went shut, just for a minute. I could still 
hear the Professor's voice droning like a big bumble-bee, when suddenly 
he stopped short in the middle of a sentence. That was odd, for he 
does love to round out his sentences nicely, even when he is interrupted. 

I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was gazing, with mouth 
half open and with eyes full of fear, at something behind me. 

Well, you know how it is when someone begins to stare behind you 
if you were to be hanged for it the next minute, you'd turn and look. 
You couldn't help it. 

I turned in my chair, and br-r-r-r ! I went cold all over, with 
little prickles in my scalp. (I suppose that was my hair standing on 
end, though Jack says it always does.) 

Coming slowly across the room, straight towards me, was a man 
ghost oh, I don't know what! I gave one horrified glance, then I 
jumped from the armchair and with one bound I was on the little 
bench, snuggled up to Clifford's side. I didn't realize it till I felt his 
arm well, under the golf-cape ! (That blessed old cape shall never go 
to the ragman, I assure you.) 

I was none too soon, for as I sprang from the chair It slid into it. 
There he sat a short, stocky figure, with grizzled hair and rough, toil- 
hardened hands. His eyes were dull and gazed straight into the fire. 

I must confess I was the tiniest bit disappointed after that first 
glance. I had all my life longed to see a really, truly ghost, but this 
one was neither picturesque nor orthodox. Where was the white 
winding-sheet? He wore faded blue overalls and a red flannel shirt! 
As to the chill, I have felt that before. 



126 The Ghost in the Red Shirt 

For instance, when Clifford threw my ring away out, and I watched 
the widening circle where it fell, while he said bitterly, "There goes 
my faith in women," I felt the very same creepy cold trickling down 
my back. I believe I even felt worse that time. 

We all sat as if paralyzed. After a minute I gathered courage to 
glance up at Clifford's face, and, do you know, he actually seemed to 
enjoy the situation ! He looked down at me, and his eyes smiled and 
I'm not sure but his lips did, as well. I know he didn't seem a bit 
scared. 

Jack certainly was white, though he scouted the idea afterwards, 
and the Professor's face was like a great lump of beef suet. 

After what seemed hours and was probably only seconds the ap- 
parition rose, glided back to the door, and disappeared. 

Jack drew a long breath and finished making a cigarette, though I 
know his hand shook and made it hard work. The Professor gathered 
himself together, said " Lord bless my soul !" it was as bad as swear- 
ing, the way he said it, and raised a forefinger. 

" Ladies and gentlemen," he began in a shaky half -whisper, " it 
would seem that we have just beheld something unusual and er 
startling." 

" Well, I should tell a man !" said Jack, glancing furtively over 
his shoulder as he drew a match along the edge of his chair. 

"Now," continued the Professor hurriedly, somewhat steadied by 
Jack's composure (though I'm certain that was only assumed), "I 
would suggest, in the interest of scientific research, that before any- 
thing is said upon the subject we each in turn write a brief description 
of the er phenomenon. In this way there will be less danger of 
our impression being colored by that of another mind, and er 
ladies first." 

With this lame finish he handed me a little, red note-book and a 
pencil. 

" Write briefly what you saw, I take it you did see something, 
then turn the page and pass the book to Mr. Wilton." 

This struck me as being decidedly original, and since I was not 
nearly as frightened as one would suppose (it was such a comfort being 
reconciled to Clifford !), I took the book and did the best I could. 

Then Clifford drew his arm reluctantly from under my cape, I 
hope and pray no one knew it was there all this while, scribbled rap- 
idly, turned the page, and gave the book to Jack, and then his arm 
oh, well, what could I do ? I did try pinching his hand, but his fingers 
caught mine in an awful grip and wouldn't let go, and so what could 
I do? 

Just then Aunt Jane woke with a shiver. 

"Mercy," she said, "what an awful storm!" 



The Ghost in the Red Shirt 127 

In a moment she noticed the steps in the other room. 

" Strange/' she said, turning her head to listen. " What is it, do 
you think ?" 

" Wind," said the Professor rather curtly, for him. 

" Water," said Clifford, giving my fingers a squeeze. 

" Eats/' announced Jack, in a tone which left us doubtful as to his 
meaning. 

" Microbes/' finished I, not to be outdone by their brevity and 
aplomb. 

" Zella !" cried Aunt Jane, glancing apprehensively at the Professor. 

The Professor looked at me and sighed, and Jack clapped both hands 
over his heart and nearly sighed himself off the three-legged stool. 
Jack can't endure Professor Goldburn. 

" Zella," began Aunt Jane pointedly, " don't you think you would 
be more comfortable in that chair?" (meaning the ghost chair.) 

"No, I don't!" I snapped, very impertinently, I'm afraid but 
catch me sitting in that chair again! 

Aunt Jane turned to Jack, perched uncomfortably on the stool. 
(Now Jack is proverbially lazy: he never sits upright when he can 
lean.) 

"Well, Jack! I never knew you to let a cushioned armchair go 
begging an occupant. What's the matter?" 

" Oh, nothing," drawled Jack. " You sit there yourself, mother." 

" Well, I will. It looks more comfortable than this straight-backed 
one," and she settled down heavily on the faded calico cushion, while 
I shivered with horror. 

If the ghost in the red shirt returned well, Aunt Jane is one of 
the screaming sort. 

We sat quiet a long time, it seemed to me. I was just wondering 
if I dared lean my head against Clifford and take a nap when I felt his 
arm tighten warningly. I looked, and there was the ghost gliding up 
to the chair, his lustreless eyes fixed upon the fire as before. 

Jack turned and saw it, and grew white. He can't convince me he 
wasn't scared, for he looked it. 

I stared, horrified. I tried to cry out, but before I could limber 
my tongue (it felt so dry and helpless) the ghost reached the chair 
and sat right down upon Aunt Jane ! He really did ! She stirred a 
little and shivered. 

" Throw more wood on the fire, Jack," she said, " I feel chilly." 

Chilly! Good Heaven, I think we all did! Even Jack's splendid 
nerve was shaken at sight of his own mother dandling that Thing upon 
her knees. 

" Mother !" he cried, and his voice sounded hoarse (for a fellow that 
wasn't scared), "for God's sake, move!" 



128 Morning 

Well, there's a gap in the story here that I can't fill. 

The next I remember Aunt Jane was fanning me with Mabel's 
sailor-hat, and Jack stood by with an old tomato-can full of water 
which leaked a stream almost, and he looking very sober. The Pro- 
fessor was rubbing his hands together and saying, " Lord bless my soul !" 
over and over. I hate that man ! 

The ghost in the red shirt was gone, and I could not hear any foot- 
steps in the vacant room. 

After that it was a thousand years till morning. Our watches had 
all stopped, so I may be allowed my own estimate of the time, I hope. 

Well, I think that's all of the ghost-story. It would take too long 
to tell how we walked home at daybreak six miles, it was, right 
through the woods, and Aunt Jane and the Professor puffing like steam- 
engines before we had gone a mile or how Uncle John had a steam- 
launch out searching for our remains. All that would make another 
story, and one is my limit. 

Oh, I didn't go to sleep in that cabin and dream all this how 
would you account for Clifford's behavior since that night, then ? And 
what about the red note-book ? That is evidence that the ghost was real 
enough, I should think. 

We had all seen him alike, only Jack said he "wanted a shave," 
which I hadn't noticed, and the Professor wrapped his description up 
in so many long words that there was no getting at the sense of it 
except that he did see a ghost. 

Aunt Jane didn't see him at all ; she says she'd have died of fright 
if she had; and, of course, Mabel, sleeping through the performance 
as she did, was perfectly furious. She even went so far as to say we 
all made it up among us just to annoy her. 

Mabel and the Professor left the same day soon after that. Mabel 
simply couldn't treat me decently after she knew 

Oh, and I have another ruby ring, exactly like the one which lies off 
Weir Point. And Clifford has oceans of faith in women. 

* 
MORNING 

BY EMMA P. SEABURY 

THE night hung like a drop of dew impearled 
Upon the silver petals of the morning star, 
Then melted o'er the blue rim of the world, 
When day had swung the gates of dawn ajar. 



V 
VOL. LXXIV NUMBER 440 

LIPPINCOTT'S 

MONTHLY MAGAZINE 

AUGUST, 1904 




SOCIAL LOGIC 

BY MAUDE ROOSEVELT 
Author of " The Price of Fame" 

I. 

CHARLOTTE sat upright in bed, her heart beating in her throat. 
A cry, wild and urgent, was echoing in her brain, and she 
knew that it had come from the next room, occupied by 
Whortley Bradford, for even now she could hear heavy breathing and 
the muffled sound of struggling bodies through the closed door. 

Then a man's voice : " Good God, man, if you kill me you know 
what " The words died into heavy breathing. 

The terrified fingers of her bed companion closed tightly upon Char- 
lotte's arm. " Oh, what is it, Charlotte ? What is the matter ?" she 
whined. 

" Hush !" Charlotte slipped an arm about her and listened. 

" Do you think I care ?" snarled a voice they easily recognized. 
" I'll show you that I care for nothing, you damned scoundrel ! I'll 
show you!" 

"Whortley!" whispered Thyra Fenton, who still clung wildly to 
her companion. Charlotte sat intently listening. 

" Let me explain," pleaded the first voice breathlessly, " you don't 
understand I don't accuse you let me God Almighty ! Help !" 

"You will call me a thief, will you!" Bradford's tone indicated 
uncontrollable passion combined with muscular effort. "You'll die 
for it, and Bob Featherstone too if I catch him, as the devil hears me ! 
Let the consequence be what it will." 

Charlotte sprang from the bed, and, bumping recklessly against 

Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. All rights reserved. 
VOL. LXXIV. 6 129 



130 Social Logic 

furniture, pushed her way through the dark to a door dividing the 
rooms. Wildly she beat upon the panels. "Mr. Bradford! Whort- 
ley I" she cried fearlessly. 

" Oh Charlotte, don't !" exclaimed Thyra in breathy appeal. " He's 
been drinking, he may break in here ; for Heaven's sake ! it would be 
a dreadful scandal!" 

But she was unheeded. Charlotte's voice was raised, the blows on 
the door fell more heavily. " Stop what you are doing in there or I 
shall raise the house !" she cried. 

The action beyond the partition ceased, someone crossed the room 
heavily. " All right," came thickly through the door. " It's nothing 
sorry \" 

Charlotte returned to bed quivering with cold and excitement; she 
scarcely heard her companion's words. 

"Think of his getting into a state like that," Thyra was saying, 
"right in the next room to me too! Bah! I always thought him 
weak, but I must say I never believed he'd drink." 

She of the courageous heart wrapped the covers closely about her 
and listened for other sound from the room adjoining. 

" What do you suppose he was doing ?" asked Thyra. 

" I don't know." 

Thyra wound up the front hair she had frantically loosened into 
becoming waves at the prospect of tragedy. " Wouldn't it have been 
dreadful if anything had happened ?" she whispered. " It would have 
been in all the papers! That's the worst of living in these wretched 
boarding-houses! I think it was unpardonable of him to use such 
language when he knows we can hear it." 

" I don't suppose he thought about that," said Charlotte, who was 
still listening for some sound from the other room. 

Thyra sniffed. " He is intoxicated, that is the truth a nice thing !" 

" Well, and if he is, it is excusable." 

" Excusable ! Why, I should like to know ?" 

"Because he has had a good deal to suffer; everything has been 
against him. Poor fellow, I pity him very much." 

"Oh, bosh! what has " 

Charlotte's hand, descending softly, smothered the words. " Listen, 
they are going out !" she whispered, whereupon they both sat up to hear 
Bradford's door close and the footsteps of the two men crossing the 
hallway and descending the stairs. 

" Do you notice how unsteady their steps are ?" said Thyra, beating 
her pillow up comfortably. " Disgusting !" 

Charlotte lay back in silence. 

" I don't see how you .can defend such behavior in him," continued 
the other with a yawn. " It has finished him with me forever." 



Social Logic 131 

"You were finished with him long ago, my dear; that is one of 
the reasons why I pity him." 

" Why don't you pity the men who have loved you ?" 

" I never led any of them on, for I have never given any man 
false hope, as you gave Whortley when you allowed yourself to be 
secretly engaged to him/' 

" Well, I was wise enough to see my mistake in time. Why should 
I marry a man in Whortley's position, I should like to know just 
for false sentiment?" 

" He might have made you very happy, my dear ; he is your equal 
in every way and is an exceptionally nice fellow, to my thinking. He 
has the misfortune of being poor, owing merely to his father's reckless- 
ness, but he is the sort who will get up quickly. There was not a 
more popular man at Princeton, and there would not be a more popular 
one here in New York society if he could afford to keep up with it. 
You came to him at the wrong time, just when he was crushed by the 
death of his father and financial ruin." 

"Did you know that his father committed suicide?" whispered 
Thyra in a tone of making a dreadful communication. 

"Yes." 

"Did he tell you?" 

" No, Aunt Katherine told me." 

There was a moment's silence. The dry boards of the hallway and 
stairs creaked noisily from the pressure of those who had so lately 
passed over them, for the house was one of those old, respectable brown- 
stone structures on Madison Avenue of which the woodwork has been 
dried and cracked by uncountable hot summers. 

" Think of my marrying the son of a suicide !" said Thyra. 

" The Colonel was momentarily crazed by his sudden loss of every- 
thing," returned her companion. " There was no one near him ; Whort- 
ley was in Europe." 

" I know, but the world doesn't take that into consideration. Be- 
sides, it showed a weakness that I think Whortley has inherited." 

Charlotte turned over. " Dear, you were perfectly right to give him 
up if you don't care for him; but don't try to excuse yourself by 
imagining faults that are not his. ISTo man could have accepted more 
bravely or manfully the blow you gave him yesterday." 

" Yes, and went to the Featherstones' ball in the evening !" 

" Of course, I can understand that, and I admire him for it. You 
treated him shabbily, and he was strong enough to conceal how much 
it hurt." 

" I should like to know what you could expect me to do ! Heaven 
knows I've had enough of poverty for the past three years. Why 
should I jump from the frying-pan into the fire? I tell you, Char- 



132 Social Logic 

lotte, I want to have a little comfort and pleasure before I die ! Poverty 
arouses every evil instinct in me and yet I never have a man with 
means attentive to me." 

" Girls situated as we are seldom have. It is not very likely we 
should meet many millionaires in a house like this." 

" No, but other girls have outside chances. Look how you met 
Count d'Orlet, for instance, just because you went to see your aunt 
off to Europe." 

" Yes," said Charlotte, a trifle bitterly, " and great happiness that 
has brought me, hasn't it !" 

" If he had not been married your father might have been com- 
fortably settled. But, do you know, Charlotte, now, don't be offended, 
I often wonder if he would really marry you, without a sou, and 
situated as you are. Do you think he would ?" 

Charlotte lay quite still an instant, and when she spoke her voice 
betrayed little of the effect the remark had had upon her. " I know 
that he would, otherwise do you think I should permit his attentions ?" 

Thyra patted her shoulder. " Now, dear, don't be huffy," she said, 
" I meant nothing ; only I do not believe much in the sincerity of 
Frenchmen, and it seems to me that if d'Orlet were quite serious, 
he would either get a divorce from his invalid wife, or allow you to 
be free and have a chance in the meantime." 

" Divorce is not permitted in the Catholic Church. I can't expect 
him to go against all his inherited principles, and should have a con- 
tempt for him if he showed no feeling for his wife." 

" Oh, of course ; but remember he is much older than you ; and a 
man of the world at thirty-six, with immense wealth at his disposal, 
knows pretty well how to win the confidence of a girl of twenty-two, 
who has had very little experience, and who " 

" Thyra, please don't say such things to me," interrupted Charlotte. 
" You don't understand the situation and cannot judge. Certainly 
no man could have shown his love for a woman more clearly than he 
has shown his for me." 

" Oh, by constant gifts and all that, I know, things that are easy 
enough to a man of his wealth, but he has his good times without you, 
in Paris and about." 

" Pooh ! he could have any girl he wants. Why should he pretend 
to care for me ?" 

" You are pretty, and different from the commonplace society girl. 
But, whether you are angry or not, I must say it, I don't think it is 
right for you to accept the attentions of a married man." 

" What would you have me do give him up and die ? If we had 
met before his family obliged him to marry a woman he never cared 
for, I should be his wife now; as it is, we must make the best of 



Social Logic 133 

things. She cannot possibly live much longer, and when she dies we 
shall be married." 

" He says so ! I think him very selfish. He will keep you waiting 
indefinitely, while you are endangering your reputation every day." 

Charlotte moved restlessly. " Oh, reputation \" she said. " For 
Heaven's sake leave that word out; it belongs to past ages. I should 
like to know one prominent woman in society whose reputation can 
bear investigation !" 

" Nonsense, there are many ; besides, you are not a prominent 
society woman, and without money or chaperonage a girl must be pretty 
careful." 

"You insinuated the other day that I am already misjudged, so 
what does it matter ?" Charlotte laughed slightly and drew the covers 
higher. "Whether 'tis better to sin pleasantly, and be judged, or 
remain virtuous in misery, and be condemned by suspicion." 

After a moment's silence Thyra ventured in a melancholy tone : " I 
have always been afraid of the effect this sort of life would have upon 
you going to dinners at cafes with a man alone, and all that! You 
say you are engaged to him, but the world doesn't know that, and 
people who know him well must know that he is married. Look at 
the light that places you in !" 

" Please let me sleep, I am tired of all this." 

"Well, Charlotte, I want to tell you that if you care nothing for 
your own good name, I care for mine ; and it hurts us both for you to 
be seen out every night alone with a man." 

" I am always home before eleven," said Charlotte ; " and, Thyra, 
if you are afraid of associating with me, we had better part at once. 
I certainly do not wish to hurt your life." 

Thyra sniffed. " Is there any need to be so tragic about it ?" she 
demanded. " I don't care if you don't ; but I tell you if you want 
to be happy in the future, you will be a little more circumspect now." 

" I don't trust the future," returned Charlotte, making herself com- 
fortable again ; " now let me sleep ; it must be nearly dawn." 

But Thyra, her blond head pillowed upon one plump arm, was the 
first to drop off into restful slumber; Charlotte Eandolph lay staring 
into the dark, thinking over and weighing the advice she had so resented, 
studying over every slightest incident of the evening while she and 
d'Orlet had been together: how he had looked at her; whether or 
cot he had evinced any signs of growing indifference. She reflected, 
upon parting with him, on giving up forever the joy of his love, his 
thousand daily attentions, and for what ? Would the world, who might 
condemn her love, fill the vacuum his departure would leave in her life ? 
An orphan, destitute of the best life can offer, struggling to keep body 
and soul together in a way legitimate to a woman gently born, could 



184 Social Logic 

she renounce all the pleasant hours with d'Orlet and sink back in 
humble submission upon the superior compassion of that social world 
which she had left Philadelphia, the home of her birth, to escape ? She 
had scorned their pity when first she had found herself alone and 
portionless in the world, and struck out bravely to make a livelihood 
by designing, why should she now submit to it when real joy was 
promised ? 

The slavery of her days accentuated by comparison the happiness 
of association with him. Charlotte was not even blessed with the small 
monthly income that assured Thyra her daily bread, and gave her the 
privilege of earning luxuries by giving three piano lessons each week. 
Her work brought her more disappointments than successes, and the 
days were often dark with discouragement. Upon such an atmosphere 
d'Orlet's influence descended like a comforting glow from that world 
of ease and luxury which should have been hers by right of birth, 
and for which her nature craved in spite of brave efforts to repress it. 
After a trying day it was always refreshing to array herself in what 
was still presentable of her finery, and drive with him down the brilliant 
avenue to some one of the fashionable cafes where could be seen a bit 
of the world of affluence, and where music and good viands made her 
forget the ugly drudgery of her days. Surely if he did not one day 
intend to marry her, why should he devote to her so much of his time 
while visiting one of the gayest cities of the world, and in spite of the 
many advances made him by women of fashion ? And yet could it be 
a French way, as Thyra had said ? Was his devotion but a subtle plan 
to so win her confidence and love that she would sacrifice all to be 
with him ? 

In these eddies of distracting thought she tossed, sleepless, until the 
dawn crept in pale and noisy through her closed curtains, revealing 
her delicately moulded, well-featured face, creamy hued, and set off 
by a wealth of chestnut hair, in fine contrast to the delicate pink and 
white and red gold of the head on the other pillow. 

On the ceiling passing carts and laborers threw their shadows like a 
moving caravan of spirits. Her half-closed mahogany-colored eyes, 
eyes that secreted a hint of Southern poppies in their warm depths, 
followed them listlessly until the weary lids fell and she slept through 
the rush and rumble of the awakening metropolis. 

II. 

THE next morning Charlotte found two letters at her place as she 
and Thyra entered the basement dining-room, an apartment of the 
ordinary boarding-house type barred windows, old women with knit 
shawls, younger ones with lined faces and roving eyes, clerks gobbling 
edibles while perusing the paper, and the inevitable odor of fried pota- 



Social Logic 185 

toes, mingled with an aroma of by-gone dinners. The epistles were 
quite different in character, one the usual tender morning greeting from 
d'Orlet, penned upon stylish and crested paper, and the other a type- 
written communication from a great wall-paper manufacturer to whom 
she had submitted some designs. This she opened last, and her face 
clouded as she read it. 

" They have rejected my designs," she said quietly. 

Thyra glanced up unwillingly from the newspaper. " Oh, dear, how 
annoying and disgusting I" she exclaimed. " But, Charlotte, do listen : 
an account of Mrs. Featherstone's ball last night, and a most exciting 
incident I" 

As she began to read aloud Charlotte's head fell upon one hand; 
she raised d'Orlet's note and examined it idly. The newspaper account 
bristled with the usual journalistic and extravagant description of a 
fashionable function, then swerved into the channel that particularly 
interested Thyra to wit, that Mrs. Featherstone, young, pretty, and 
of questionable antecedents, had left the ball at two o'clock in company 
with someone no one knew who, and went no one knew whither, and 
few seemed to care. The festivity had continued at full swing until 
three-thirty in the morning, when the naughty hostess suddenly ap- 
peared at one of the ballroom doorways hooded and cloaked and very 
pale. A cavalier was sent in search of her husband, who quickly 
emerged from behind some palms and hurried to his tragic wife. 
Everything was done very quietly, and only a small few noticed that 
something had gone decidedly wrong; yet before the ball broke up it 
was pretty well known on every side that Mrs. Featherstone had lost 
her wonderful rope of priceless diamonds, which Featherstone had 
spent three years gathering in nearly every quarter of the globe. It 
also became known that the number of guests present had become mys- 
teriously augmented by the addition of three of the cleverest detectives 
in America disguised in faultless evening clothes, and calmly presented 
by the ostentatiously carele s host as personal friends from somewhere 
or other undefined. 

"What do you think of that?" exclaimed Thyra when she had 
finished, regarding her vis-a-vis with wide eyes. 

" Newspaper talk for the most part, probably," returned Charlotte 
indifferently, although during her friend's reading certain words she 
had heard uttered in Bradford's room during the night returned 
forcibly, and she could not but wonder what connection they might have 
had with this episode. 

An unaccountable anxiety increased her curiosity, yet it suggested 
a possibility so hideous that she refused to harbor it distinctly in her 
own mind, and could not have been tempted to disclose it to the one 
in whose opinion Bradford had so wished to stand high. 



186 Social Logic 

" Do you suppose she lost the diamonds while she was out ?" asked 
Thyra as she performed her usual morning task of removing to the 
farthest end of the table two very blackish bananas that had been placed 
before them under the head of " breakfast fruit," " or that they were 
stolen in the ballroom?" 

" Probably stolen/' returned Charlotte absently, " for they cer- 
tainly must have been fastened securely." 

" Well, it is about what that Bob Featherstone deserves ; I remem- 
ber father saying he merited being locked up if anyone ever did." 
"Why?" 

" Oh, he got his money in some dishonest way I've forgotten. 
Boomed up a lot of stock that was worth nothing and sold it at 
enormous prices. He was a broker, you know, and acted in Philadel- 
phia in connection with White and Murray here, so, of course, everyone 
had confidence in him." 

" I remember he became wealthy very suddenly. It amuses me now 
to see his name figuring in the smartest set here, when a few years ago 
my sister was not allowed to receive him. But, apropos of money, do 
you realize, dear, that I shall not have a dollar to my name next week, 
after my board-bill is paid?" 

Thyra looked at her with wide eyes an instant, then poured cream 
on her oatmeal. 

" What will you do, dear ?" she asked comfortably. " Why did they 
not take your designs ?" 

" Found them too elaborate ! One time too ordinary, another too 
much colored, now too elaborate !" 
"What will you do?" 

" I shall take them to-day down to the Greenley Company. I know 
the work is good, and probably at a bigger house I shall have more 
chance." 

" Of course, that is just the thing to do, dearest, they will be sure 
to appreciate them. I wish I could see Whortley Bradford for a few 
moments to hear what he has to say about the ball. I suppose he is 
too ashamed about last night to put in an appearance. You know 
Mrs. Featherstone has quite a penchant for him imagine !" 

"Well, she might find worse, but I am sure Whortley would not 
waste much time upon her." 

"Pooh! She has the almighty dollar! He will probably devote 
himself entirely to her now and fancy he is hurting me !" 

" Oh, I don't think he is that sort. You have always underrated 
him, Thyra; I hope you will never regret it." 

Two hours later Charlotte had presented herself in the main office 
of the Greenley house.. A tall young man, neatly dressed and with 
admirable manners, came forward to ask her business, and upon being 



Social Logic 137 

informed, with a diffidence that Charlotte's already considerable ex- 
perience in this line had not yet enabled her to overcome, looked at the 
designs thoughtfully a moment, then said kindly : " I'm sorry it's too 
bad you didn't bring them in before. Our selections have all been 
made for the coming year in fact, we're at present overstocked," and 
added, as he noted a shadow of disappointment cross the lovely eyes: 
" They are certainly very pretty ; perhaps the Morrison Company are 
looking for something of the sort." 

" Don't you think you could take them for next year ?" asked Char- 
lotte. " They are absolutely original, and could therefore not be dupli- 
cated." 

The young man suppressed a smile, and was about to reply 
graciously in the negative when a man of about seventy, who had been 
hovering unseen in the rear, approached. At first sight he appeared 
deformed, so greatly were his shoulders bowed; the head, large and 
bald, with a fringe of black hair framing a long, ivory-hued face, hung 
forward upon a sunken chest. A pair of small black eyes, somewhat 
bleared, directed a keen glance towards Charlotte as he bent over the 
designs and inquired in a wheezy tone what the trouble was. The clerk, 
with a gleam of relief, straightway explained the situation. After a 
moment's careful scrutiny of them through a pair of gold-rimmed pince- 
nez the old gentleman gathered the designs together and said quite 
distinctly, but addressing no one in particular, " Will you come in here, 
please ?" 

As Charlotte hesitated the young man whispered with evident satis- 
faction : " Follow Mr. Greenley, please, he is the head of the concern ; 
if he likes them, they'll go, and perhaps as many more as you can do." 

Charlotte's spirits rose as she followed the bowed and gnome-like 
form into a small private room fitted up comfortably with easy-chairs, 
books, desk, and appropriate decorations. 

As Mr. Greenley took his seat at the handsome desk and spread out 
before him the three designs she had an opportunity to notice him 
more in detail. There was a hawkishness about the thin, yellow face, 
with its innumerable lines and furrows, its great, beak-like nose, and 
black eyes shining like a rat's beneath shaggy brows in spite of the 
foggy film partly covering them. But the mouth was the most repul- 
sive feature he possessed; the under lip, heavy and darkly colored, 
hung so loosely as to reveal an uneven row of yellow, elongated teeth, 
and boasted not even the slight curtaining of a mustache; a pair of 
short side whiskers were the only beard Mr. Greenley wore. The 
hands were well kept, but yellow and emaciated to an extreme. In dress 
he revealed that propriety without individuality given a man by a good 
tailor who is neither dictated to nor stinted. His well-groomed appear- 
ance and evident age tempted Charlotte to ignore his ugliness and to 



138 Social Logic 

fancy she saw in the keen look he now turned upon her the generous 
interest of an old man in a young girl's struggles. 

After regarding her a moment he turned his attention again to the 
designs. 

" You wish to sell these ?" he asked huskily. 

"Yes," returned Charlotte, perplexed by the question; then, real- 
izing that a little personal magnetism might assist matters, she added 
with a touch of coquetry : " Do you not find them beautiful ? It is not 
to every house I should care to submit them !" 

1 He apparently continued to scrutinize the work, though, in fact, 
his eyes were fixed in thought. 

When he looked up they gleamed more brightly. " What made you 
bring them to me ?" he asked, with an undertone that contained volumes. 

But again Charlotte was puzzled. She could not look upon him 
as upon an individual ; he represented to her only the ugly propelling 
motor of a vast business machine through which she hoped to find 
a market for her work, and although her instinct suspected something 
lurking beneath the hideous smile that accompanied his words, it took 
no shape in a mind entirely inexperienced in such things. That 
gossamer and fragile film of feminine delicacy which enfolds the nature 
of every refined woman, sensitive as the antennae of a butterfly, and 
capable of excruciating suffering such as a man can never suspect, 
often shrinks beneath a breath of insult before the mind has obtained 
a distinct impression of it, and so slight had been the sense of aversion 
that Charlotte did not heed it. Necessity, that had developed to a terri- 
fying menace, made the sale of her designs stand first in importance for 
the moment. 

" I brought them to you," she replied, revealing her straight white 
teeth bewitchingly and with the slightest of blushes, " because I thought 
you would probably appreciate them more than than a smaller house 
would." 

Although she had. ended the sentence less personally than she had 
at first intended, she recognized at once that it had pleased him. 

" You are quite right," he said after an instant's deliberation, " I 
do appreciate them, and shall accept them at once." He turned the 
designs over. " You have not stated what amount you expect for 
them." Again the black eyes were fixed upon her, and again Char- 
lotte's color deepened. 

"I never specify the price," she said simply; "you know better 
what they are worth than I." 

A slight smile flitted across Mr. Greenley's face. " Oh, that is 
quite right," he murmured, leaning nearer to her. " You have a good 
business head, I see. Haven't you ?" he added with a grotesque leer on 
beholding the troubled expression of the girl's face. 



Social Logic 139 

" I should not think that reply indicated business ability," she 
returned quite seriously. " I fear you are mocking me." 

He uttered a strange, significant chuckle, and Charlotte shrank back 
from the approach of his breath, which reached her at the moment 
with odorous force. 

"Not mocking in the least/' replied the head of the firm. "In 
this case you could not have done a wiser thing than leave the matter 
of price in my hands. They are worth to me, at this moment, a 
hundred dollars each, and if you remained as much longer they would 
certainly be worth double." 

He had drawn so near to her that for an instant she felt paralyzed 
with fear of the hideous face and the insinuation his words suggested. 

" Oh, no," she exclaimed, " that is far too much ! I never get more 
than thirty dollars each for them." 

Mr. Greenley was leaning forward, with elbows on knees, rubbing 
his thin hands together; a slight touch of color had come to his face. 
" Well, is it too late to begin ?" he asked. " The other purchasers didn't 
appreciate them I do. You have just the ideas I like, my dear young 
lady, and I'm not going to lose this chance of securing all your work. 
Can you undertake to fill some orders for me at the price I offer?" 

As Charlotte hesitated her heart beat higher; she felt herself in- 
wardly shrinking beneath his bold gaze. But back of this instinctive 
revulsion the hard facts of her life stood out threateningly. And she 
replied a trifle breathlessly, " Perhaps ; yes, I shall try." 

" Good !" murmured Mr. Greenley, and one of the thin, long hands 
descended upon hers, pressing it for part of a second. " That is 
right. You will not regret coming to me, my dear, that's a fact! 
I'm a curious man in some ways, perhaps, but I know a deserving 
person when I see one, and I'm not afraid to give a helping hand, 
that's a fact!" 

Charlotte stirred uncomfortably beneath the bleared eyes; she was 
tempted to rise precipitantly and leave the office. 

A slight contraction of her straight brows seemed to awake him to 
her embarrassment. He drew back, and, assuming a more business- 
like tone, gave her some idea of the sort of designs he wished, and 
ordered three more, to be submitted as soon as she could get them ready. 

" You may always have entrance to this room and see me privately," 
he added, " and you needn't be accepting thirty dollars any more from 
smaller houses." This he followed by a chuckle, and brought his hand 
once more down upon hers. 

Charlotte withdrew her hand at once, gently but firmly; where- 
upon he regarded her critically. 

" Is there anything wrong in that ?" he asked. " I'm an old mail, 
Certainly it can't offend you for me to touch your hand," 



140 Social Logic 

" It seems rather unnecessary," returned Charlotte with dignity and 
some embarrassment. 

Mr. Greenley watched her color deepen, then wheeled about to the 
desk and opened his check-book. " Don't see how anyone could object 
to that/' he muttered reproachfully. " Mere friendly feeling ; I don't 
see the harm, that's a fact." 

Charlotte could never remember how she had accepted his check for 
three hundred dollars, nor how she finally got out of his office. 

After walking two blocks in the cold outer air her cheeks still 
burned, and hot waves of shame ran up and down her spine. 

Two things alone were clear to her one that she would never again 
submit work to Mr. Greenley, and the other that she would never confide 
to Thyra the conversation she had had with him. 

III. 

As she entered the Madison Avenue house Whortley Bradford, who 
was pacing up and down the dull public parlor, stepped into the hall. 

" Charlotte," he said in a constrained undertone, " are you in a 
hurry to go up ?" 

Charlotte, looking into his handsome face, appreciated at once by 
its pallor that something of unusual moment and seriousness was upon 
his mind. Immediately her thoughts flew back to the scene of the 
night, and the connection which she had perhaps unreasonably given 
it with the mysterious loss of Mrs. Featherstone's diamonds. 

She had always admired Bradford, perhaps more than any man but 
d'Orlet, and the thought that he could in any way be connected with 
a deed so hideous had already caused her considerable secret worry. 

" No, I am not in a hurry," she replied. " Why ?" 

" Because, if you can spare the time, I'd like to talk to you for a 
few moments." 

" Certainly. Where shall we go ? in here ?" 

" There's nothing more private in this beastly hole," he returned 
sullenly as he followed her back into the large room, furnished in an 
attempt at Turkish style and crowded with heterogeneous knickknacks 
and pictures. " I wish there were !" 

Charlotte made herself comfortable on a lounge in one of the 
corners, and Bradford continued to pace about without looking at her. 
As she watched him she was impressed by an unfamiliar suppression of 
force in the movements and bearing of his tall, muscular person. His 
hands were clasped strongly back of him, a stray lock lay upon his 
brow. She saw in him a man full of energy and will, which, directed 
in the right channel, might have accomplished anything and proved 
him a worthy descendant of the old and proud lineage portrayed in 
his every feature. But directed wrongly, could it not be equally power- 



Social Logic 141 

ful? would it be balked by any obstacle from attaining the ends it 
sought ? Her heart ached for him, and yet she could not put away the 
ugly idea that had grown out of what she overheard in the night. 
Even as she watched him this idea detracted from her impulse of 
compassion. 

" Thyra is out," he said, abruptly coming to a stand-still before her. 
" Do you know when she will be back ?" 

" No ; probably before long. Had you an appointment with her ?" 

" No." He pushed the lock of hair back and studied a picture 
absently, then with a quick movement drew up a chair and sat opposite 
her. " I am glad I failed to find her," he said quickly. " It would 
have done no good. I came here on a wild impulse to tell her some- 
thing she would probably neither believe nor sympathize with me in. 
I thought it was necessary now it seems all different. Gad! Why 
should I tell her? Why should anyone know what only concerns a 
man's own self? Do you know, I believe I dreaded having her see 
me in a bad light ! Even though it's all up between us, and rightly too 

probably, I dreaded having But I sha'n't bore you with all this. 

I am leaving here to-day." He stuck his hands in his trousers-pockets 
and drew a nervous breath. He had spoken quickly, almost wildly, and 
seemed to be recklessly trying to avoid the subject uppermost in his 
mind, a subject which Charlotte felt she had already guessed, unpleasant 
as it was to believe that her suspicions should be thus proved to be 
substantial. 

"By the by/' he said more calmly after a pause, "I owe you an 
apology more than an apology. I am most deeply grieved and morti- 
fied about last night. There is no possible way of adequately excusing 
myself. It was an outrage ! All I can say is that it will never occur 
again." 

There was a moment of silence ; he studied his locked hands thought- 
fully. To Charlotte nothing appropriate suggested itself; she could 
appreciate only how thin and ill he looked. 

"You are not taking care of yourself," she said presently; "you 
look wretchedly." 

Bradford did not stir. "I know," he replied, "Fve been a fool 
in a good many ways. Physically I'm all broken up have been for 
several years. If I'd kept my health, I shouldn't be where I am 
to-day. I needed peace of mind two years ago ; instead, I fell right into 
difficulties. It was unfortunate," he added abruptly, and rose to pace 
the room again. " But a fellow can't be expected to understand every 
situation the first time he's thrust into it. I'd do differently now, I'd 
do differently. But the chance has passed ; I've taken the wrong step." 
His head hung low again ; he was lost in his own thoughts. 

" If you could only become interested in someone else," said Char- 



142 Social Logic 

lotte, who felt sincerely sorr}^ for him when she remembered how 
Thyra had led him on in the beginning, and how tender and unselfish 
he had always shown himself towards them both, even when he had 
much to worry him. 

He turned upon her sharply to answer, his face contorted with a 
flash of anger, his lips parted cynically. But instantly he had mas- 
tered himself, and made an effort to laugh. 

" Oh, no, don't wish me that I" he said. " Rather wish me a better 
head in the future than I've had in the past and perhaps a little 
courage to live down the mistakes I've made ; wish me that, if you will, 
but not the other." 

"I do wish it with all my heart," returned Charlotte feelingly. 
There was an air of desperation lurking under his words more elo- 
quent than anything he could have uttered. 

He returned to his chair and looked meditatively at his boots. " I 
believe you are trying to feel sorry for me," he said, " and in honesty 
I must let you know I don't deserve it. I've allowed my imagination 
and my pleasure-loving nature to run away with me. I've made some 
false moves, yes I hardly know why; but what is done is done! I 
suppose a fellow becomes sort of soft when he's hard hit, and two 
years ago, just before I met you and Thyra, the world had changed a 
bit for me; and well, I was knocked pretty well out of things in 
general." 

Charlotte felt the helplessness of his mood, the desire to confide, 
to pour out some of the gall choking his heart, counteracted by a 
masculine dread of compassion and a distaste for throwing any of the 
blame upon Thyra. 

"I know," she said as naturally as possible. "To a woman it 
seems incredible that anyone could survive such calamity and retain 
any interest in things." 

He looked up quickly. " You know ?" he asked with a touch of dis- 
pleasure. "You have heard all about my trouble then?" 

" Not from Thyra. My aunt, Mrs. Crumby, told me a little just 
enough to let me understand something of what you have suffered." 

"It was quite a public affair, why should you not know?" He 
moved impatiently and again pushed the hair back from his brow. 
"There is nothing private ever in this country! However, nothing 
can excuse a man making a fool of himself, or worse ! Do you know," 
he wheeled about and looked her straight in the face, "I came here 
to-night to tell you and Thyra something that would make you both 
despise me. Why, God knows? I might even have thrown myself 
again at her feet! Some debasing influence, some uncontrollable and 
shameless frenzy, takes possession of me lately and forces me to com- 
mit follies as though I were deranged. I do things that I should 



Social Logic 143 

consider any other fellow insane for doing." Again his voice lowered 
introspect! vely; he closed his hand nervously. "If you hadn't been 
here, if we hadn't had this talk, I might have done some other fool 
thing!" 

" You are run down. Why don't you go off some place and rest for 
a week?" 

" And who'll support me ? But I'm going, whatever it may cost ! I 
must get into a new atmosphere." He stood and stretched himself to 
his full height. "But about you, will you stay on here? A beastly 
place ; it always hurt me to see you two girls here alone." 

"You shouldn't condemn it; it was here we all got to know each 
other better." 

" Oh, I don't condemn it ! Some sort of fate probably brought us 
along together, though I fail to see its purport. I've moved over to 
the ' Atley' this morning, cheap and nasty too, but after last night 
by the by, did you overhear " 

Thyra, who had just entered, catching a glimpse of them, swept 
into the room, a vision of blond loveliness, for the radiance of her hair 
and complexion made up for a lack of soul in the small-featured face 
and round, blue eyes. 

" Well ! when did you get back, Charlotte ?" she asked, looking in- 
quisitively from one to the other, and before she had shown any sign 
of recognition to Bradford. 

" A few moments ago ; I found Mr. Bradford here," returned Char- 
lotte. " You are later than usual." 

"Yes, I walked down; it is such a lovely day and my head ached 
a little, I suppose from the wretched night I had." 

Charlotte started to speak, hoping to cover the remark, but Brad- 
ford was before her. 

" It is to offer my apologies to you and Charlotte that I have come 
here this morning, Thyra," he said. " I can never tell you how morti- 
fied I was when I realized what I had been guilty of." 

Thyra was taking off her gloves. " I must say I had never ex- 
pected you to reveal yourself in such a light," she said coldly, "it 
horrified me." 

He bowed his head with a certain reserved dignity. " I can under- 
stand your feelings ; it shall certainly not occur again." 

Thyra looked up at him, her slender lips drawn a little severely. 
" Did you forget how close my our room was ?" she asked, and Char- 
lotte, thinking the question quite unnecessary, turned abruptly towards 
the divan. 

" Let us sit down," she said, " and let by-gones be by-gones." 

"Thanks, I must be off," said Bradford, and added, "I forgot 
everything last night, Thyra; I had reached a crisis; but I'm afraid 



144 Social Logic 

my excuses would be entirely incomprehensible to you, so I can only 
trust that you will believe I did not deliberately subject you to such 
a disgraceful revelation. Good-night." 

He held out his hand, but Thyra flouted it with her glove. " Oh, 
you need not go up right away; sit down a moment. I want to hear 
about the ball last night." 

She spoke with the easy and condescending confidence usually 
adopted by shallow women towards the men who love them, and, 
evincing no doubt that he would obey, sank with graceful languor into 
a deep chair. 

Bradford had never seemed so handsome to Charlotte as in that 
moment. He stood an instant looking towards Thyra, his head raisecj 
a little, his eyes burning, and a strange, almost contemptuous smile 
curling his lips. " I am sorry," he said, " but I have already been here 
too long, I am due at " 

He was here interrupted by a shrill, sexless voice garnished by a 
strange imitation of English inflections. "Ah, here you are!" and a 
slight, wiry individual, arrayed in ultra-fashionable male attire, minced, 
hat under arm, into the room. 

On beholding the ladies he made two deep obeisances and slackened 
speed. 

Bradford's color deepened. "Well, hello, Alcott, how are you?" 
he said mechanically, looking down on the new-comer as a mastiff might 
look on a pup. 

Alcott hunched one shoulder and brought innumerable lines to his 
brow, which made his clean-shaven face, with its round, black eyes, 
long upper lip, and insignificant nose appear more than ever like that 
of a monkey. " A thousand pardons if I intrude," he murmured in 
the carefully modulated tone of a student of parlor effects. "I was 
ushered straight in here, you know, ha, ha, literally shoved in, by the 
important-looking brass buttons sorry!" While giving utterance to 
this breathless speech he was squirming about excitedly, screwing up 
his prematurely aged face, and bending his frail, stomachless body 
towards Charlotte and Thyra in what was probably intended as a bit of 
courtesy picked up abroad ! 

" I am just leaving," said Bradford. " If you want to talk to me, 
better walk down a bit with me." 

"Excellent!" piped his visitor. "I'm delighted I had the good 
fortune to arrive before you left." 

Bradford held out his hand to Charlotte. " Good-night, Charlotte ; 
I wish you all luck." 

" Thank you," she returned. " I hope this doesn't mean good-by ?" 

" Oh, no, I hope not." He turned to Thyra. " Will you say good- 
night ?" He smiled as he proffered her his hand ; it was an inscrutable 
smile and gave new character to his face. 



Social Logic 145 

Thyra laid her small, slender hand in his. " Are you not here any 
more ?" 

" No ; was afraid I might forget myself again, so moved out." 

Her face expressed the astonishment the news and manner caused 
her. " I hope we shall see you sometimes/' she said rather awkwardly 
when he had released her hand. 

When they had gone she looked at Charlotte inquiringly. " What 
do you suppose made him move from here?" she asked in a tone of 
underlying suspicion. 

" I suppose he is ashamed about last night/' returned Charlotte. 
" You made him feel it enough." 

" Yes, but he had moved before I came home. Did you know that 
he was going ?" 

" Certainly not ; he told me just a moment before you came in." 

Thyra sat silent a moment; she was both puzzled and put out, for 
women of her type never like to lose the power they have once wielded, 
however distasteful be the subject over which they possess it. 

Charlotte arose. " We had better go in to luncheon if we want any," 
she said ; " it is already late." 

Her companion followed her with a careless shrug. " Well, I don't 
care; let him stay away; it will be a great relief to me. But he 
certainly did act strangely; I can't understand it." 

One trait of Thyra's that her friend could not tolerate was an 
undercurrent of insinuation or accusation with which she could at will 
flavor a most simple sentence. In her last words she detected this veiled 
attack, and her blood heated as she realized what it might mean. " He 
has probably decided to accept his conge at last," she said somewhat 
testily. " You can't expect a man to hang around like a kitten forever, 
my dear, and I don't see why you should be surprised ; this is the end 
you have been wishing for since he first spoke to you." 

" Oh, I know, and I'm not a bit sorry. It is much better that he 
should go. I wish he had presented Beverly Alcott, though; he is 
always in everything, and he might have made it nice for us here. 
Men are so selfish about that sort of thing; they never help a girl to 
know other men." At the table she continued dismally : " I expect we 
shall exist on here like rats in a hole ad infinitum. A girl might as well 
be buried in the Desert of Sahara as cooped up in a boarding-house 
without money in New York City !" 

"I have some good news to tell you," said Charlotte, feeling a 
return of heat to her spine as she remembered the folded check in her 
card-case. When she had related to Thyra her experience at Greenley's 
with some significant omissions, the latter congratulated her and ex- 
pressed a moderate amount of satisfaction. 

"That Greenley is one of the richest men in America," she said. 



146 Social Logic 

" He does not need to continue the business, but has become so absorbed 
in it he cannot give up, and now goes in for very artistic work, I 
believe. Think of having all that money and yet plodding along, 
instead of going abroad and having a good time? He is one of the 
big financiers of the world now, and his daughter married the Duke de 
Mentino, an Italian, several years ago. And yet his father, they say, 
was a manufacturer of very cheap soap out West less than forty years 
ago think of it 1" 

" He has given me an order for some more/' said Charlotte, still 
ashamed to go into the particulars of why she was not more elated over 
her success. 

Thyra broke a bit of bread thoughtfully. "Isn't that fine!" she 
said, without rousing herself. "I am awfully glad, dear." Then, 
with a little frown, "I think Whortley might have introduced that 
Alcott man to us; he certainly gave every evidence of interest, and it 
might have been a very good chance for us to meet some of the smart 
set here and be given a good time." 

"Do you think either of us are in position to go into or keep up 
with the smart set ?" Charlotte smiled derisively. " Besides, I shouldn't 
care to be introduced by such an insignificant little popinjay." 

"Alcott? He is one of the most prominent men in town; led the 
cotillon at Mrs. Cameron's, and he knows everyone !" 

" Well, he isn't my style ; he reminds me of an affected kangaroo. 
If he is a representative of the New York smart set, I am glad I'm 
not in it." 

" The thing that makes me boil," said Thyra with a savage jerk of 
her flame-colored head, " is to know that we are entitled by birth to 
as good a place as anyone holds here, both of us, and yet people who 
cannot trace their ancestry back two generations are in a position to 
look down upon us." 

" Well, it io that way all over the world, dear ; money is thicker than 
blood nowadays, and as for birth that counts as little as one's swad- 
dling-clothes, and is of as little service to the present generation." 

Thyra's head fell forward on her hand as she toyed with some 
stewed prunes. " I hate to feel that the best years of youth are going 
like this," she said; "nothing but monotony and the association of 
mediocre people, clerks, and slaves who can never lift themselves out 
of the mire. It makes me suffocate !" 

"Well, why don't you take what you can get? Why do you snub 
every honest man who approaches you, and refuse every invitation that 
is offered ?" 

"Because what is the use of receiving the attentions of half -cut 
paupers and risking one's reputation. Besides, I think I should lose 
some of my self-respect were I to go out nights to dine with men I 
know very little about." 



Social Logic 147 

" Not to dine, then, but to go to the theatre now and then, certainly 
that wouldn't hurt you, with as nice a man as George Brown ; and who 
would know it?" 

" Oh, it isn't that I'm afraid what other people would say, it's my 
own feeling, my own conscience. I was brought up to have very moral 
views about things, and I can't help feeling squeamish." 

Charlotte's brows knitted. " But, in the name of goodness, what 
crime is there in going to the theatre with a man at your age?" she 
demanded. " Even girls who are living at home with their parents do 
it here in New York." 

" Yes, that's just it, they have the protection of their parents, but as 
we are situated " 

" Oh, bother !" exclaimed Charlotte, pushing back her chair. " I 
must say I have no patience with that sort of argument. My advice 
is to take what innocent enjoyment you can get and be your own judge 
of what is right and wrong, for if you don't your prized reputation will 
be at the mercy of the world's liver condemned when it is bilious, 
and approved when it is well. Public opinion doesn't need even cir- 
cumstantial evidence." 

" Well, you may look at it like that," returned Thyra with a slight 
tightening of her upper lip, while she carefully went through the 
hated but necessary ordeal of folding her napkin, " but then you know 
we have always had different ideas about these things. I believe a girl 
should keep herself spotless; for, as my aunt used to say, when the 
bloom of innocence is once rubbed off it can never be regained." 

" All right, my dear, keep your bloom, if it is so fragile as to 
be endangered by such trifles! I believe a woman's morals are as 
strong as her understanding; and if she is afraid to put them to the 
slightest test, they are either very weak or dependent on public opinion." 

IV. 

THYRA, who had been more or less fretful and dissatisfied all after- 
noon, decided, towards five, to go to Brooklyn to dine and spend the 
night with a friend whom she was wont to look down upon, but who 
was sincerely fond of her. Charlotte was well pleased, for she disliked 
leaving her to dine alone, now that Bradford was gone and there was 
no one likely to drop in to amuse her. As for herself, the thought of 
sacrificing one hour from the eagerly looked for evening with d'Orlet 
was more than she could bravely contemplate. He had been on a 
coaching trip all afternoon, and consequently she had not seen him 
since the evening before. But instead of utilizing the hours during 
his absence by working upon new designs for Mr. Greenley, the memory 
of the morning's experience was so hateful she could not even think of 
her work, so employed herself in freshening up the gown she was to 



148 Social Logic 

wear, a very picturesque black chiffon brightened by Oriental turquoise 
beading, and to be further embellished by the mass of pale double 
violets he had sent, as usual, to herald his coming. 

When he arrived at a quarter to seven she came to him quickly, with 
the tact of one who appreciates the folly and often irreparable conse- 
quences of causing needless impatience. He had not yet seated him- 
self when she swept towards him with a slight silken rustle, and carry- 
ing with her an appropriate aroma of fresh violets. 

"Bien!" he said, extending both hands and holding her eyes with 
a pair no less beautiful and tender but somewhat darker, " how is my 
cherie to-night? I am made so happy to see that gladness in your 
dear eyes." 

"How many years is it since you were here before?" she asked, 
pressing her laughing face an instant against his hand. " Did you 
enjoy your long day with all those rich women and blase" men?" 

" Not in the least, petite, and for that reason I am here instead of 
dining with them at Sherry's to-night." 

" What ! did the greedy creatures want you to-night too ?" 

They were now on their way to a hansom awaiting them before the 
door. " Yes," he said, as he helped her in, " they did not know all 
they were asking me to relinquish, but I know, and consequently I am 
here ?" 

The vehicle turned and started briskly on its journey towards Fifth 
Avenue. D'Orlet drew Charlotte close to him. " You have not kissed 
me to-night," he whispered in that accent of appealing love so alluring 
in the Latins. He did not attempt to force her; he waited with his 
head close to hers until the sweet face was uplifted voluntarily; and 
even then he looked into the half-closed eyes, upon the girlish, parted 
lips an instant before he kissed them with no abandon, but as a man 
of fine sensibilities might kiss a flower from the grave of one he loves. 
When he sat back he sighed, there was a melancholy mingled with his 
satisfaction in being with her. It was always so, and she too was wont 
to become pensive. For a moment they sat silent, then her hand stole 
over to his. 

" Don't be sad," she said ; " I want to be gay to-night. Where 
shall we dine ?" 

" At Flouret's. We are less likely to be seen by any of to-day's 
party there, and it is always more private." 

"Yes, I have a penchant for Flouret's. We shall find our own 
little table and forget everything but the happiness of being together !" 

" It is that happiness which makes me sigh," murmured d'Orlet as 
he helped her alight before the cafe. " Qui soupire n' a pas tout ce 
qu'il desire. I have nearly all, but not all ; and the joy of having you 
for a small hour or two makes me suffer to realize that I do not possess 
you forever." 



Social Logic 149 

His voice alone, with its musical foreign accent, was enough to 
captivate a woman more sophisticated than Charlotte; but his fine 
physique, his beautiful, clear-cut features, his noble carriage and man- 
ner, made him a man few women could resist and one whom most 
women, having once met, made no bones about running after. 

"Well, don't let us think of that/' exclaimed Charlotte, speaking 
quickly in order to drown an echo of Thyra's philosophy, of the doubts 
that had risen in her own mind. " Let us be really happy to-night. 
What shall we have ? Don't look at me sadly, please ; smile, and and 
order something. Ah, there is the music ! Eaff's ' Cavatina !' How 
I love it!" 

" What shall we have, cherie ? No man could long be dull in the 
radiance of your smile. Look at me." 

" I shall name only the entree, the rest you must choose I" she said, 
turning the red-brown eyes, narrowed with laughter and warm with 
immeasurable tenderness, roguishly up on him. " I want some of those 
delicious little lambs' feet, that have nothing on them, but are so 
good!" 

"That is what you would call here a bull, isn't it?" he returned, 
and laughed with the mere contagion of her bright face. "However, 
you shall have them ; you shall have everything you wish, ma belle." 

" And we shall be gay ? You will not look at me sadly any more, 
promise me." She stretched her hand over to him across the tiny table, 
and he took it between both of his. 

" You are adorable," he whispered ; " those eyes delight me." 

" Promise," she repeated, " no more gravity to-night." 

" I promise ; we shall be gay and careless as you wish." And 
he kept his word during the dinner. They laughed and chattered, 
criticising the people who entered, following bits of the music, and 
having a good time generally. 

But when in the carriage on the way home d'Orlet became grave 
again. Charlotte felt it, yet in the tender embrace of his arms she 
could not fight against a mood that was so in harmony with that which 
had existed beneath her own gay exterior the whole evening. A soft 
and soothing lethargy stole over her, a contentment of body and mind, 
in the joy of feeling him near, all hers, while the world seemed far 
removed. 

" Why must you always return so early ?" he whispered. " It is not 
yet eleven." 

She made no reply; to her it too seemed foolish to end so soon the 
joy of that hour. She remained passive, her head resting upon his 
shoulder. 

"We shall take a little drive first before returning," he said, "a 
short drive through the park." 



150 Social Logic 

" No," Charlotte sat up, the old tormenting question passed through 
her mind, "no, Jacques, I can't do that!" 

" Mais pourquoi done ? What wrong is there in it ?" 

" There is no wrong, but I must be back. It will be misunderstood 
at the house if I returned after eleven. We are there without any 
chaperonage ; I must be careful." 

" Oh, that house !" he exclaimed bitterly, " how I hate to see you 
living there! It is not a fit place for you. Charlotte, cherie, let me 
do as I asked you; let me arrange for you a suitable little apartment, 
a place worthy of you, at the Holland House, or where you will. This 
way you are living is killing me. My heart aches; I see you fade 
droop." 

Charlotte caught her breath; she shrank away from him. "Why 
do you say that again ?" she asked reproachfully. " You know how it 
displeased me before. I asked you never again to propose such a thing." 

D'Orlet threw back his shoulders with the irritation of one un- 
accustomed to be crossed. " Tiens ! this is nonsense ! Sometimes it 
would be pleasant to see you indoors." 

"The parlor is there." 

" A public place ! No, I am tired of that. Charlotte, you ask 
very much of a man. I stay here to see you; I give up much for 
the pleasure of dining with you, and returning at ten; of driving with 
you sometimes in the park, c'est tout !" 

She withdrew her hands from him; a chill had stolen into her 
heart. " If what you resign is of more value, you must not give it 
up any more, Jacques," she murmured, scarce audibly. 

" That is not the point ; the question is, does love unite us or not ? 
If your love were like mine, you would not always be considering the 
convenances ! I should be the world to you, as you are to me." 

" You have nothing to lose by ignoring them ; besides, you do not 
understand American ways, as I do." 

" Oh, you are wrong !" He laughed significantly. " I am more 
familiar than you, ma petite, with this very city and its ways ways 
that you in your innocence never dream of. I should not wish you to 
know of them, but I tell you there isn't a woman I have met in society 
here that would have the right to criticise you whatever you did." 

"It is not their criticism that I dread; I have my own ideas, 
Jacques, you know that, and I shall not act in opposition to them." 

"And it is in opposition to your ideas of propriety to allow me 
to do a little to make you more comfortable ?" 

" In that way, yes. You have already done much to- make me 
happier and give me pleasure, but what you propose is impossible." 

" You are cold," his tone fell lower in reproach. " Your love comes 
secondary to the world's opinion, that is it. You cannot resign yourself 



Social Logic 151 

entirely to my honor and to my love. There is absolutely nothing 
wrong in what I suggest; if you wish, you could have your friend with 
you. Surely that would be proper enough." 

The carriage had come to a stand-still before Charlotte's door; she 
sat up and looked out the window, where pale yellow lamp-light illu- 
mined the sombre flight of brownstone steps, the grating of the hideous 
basement dining-room. Two men, with a slovenly looking woman be- 
tween them, passed by with a subdued murmur of voice and clatter 
of heels. She thought of Thyra and her correct views, how she would 
receive such a suggestion ; she wondered at herself that she could listen 
to it so quietly; it seemed as though there must be something wrong 
with her own moral conscience, since in truth she was not shocked, 
she could not sincerely discern in the words any insult to herself. 

However, she felt it essential to the maintenance of her self-esteem 
to take offence. " I have discussed this all with you before, Jacques," 
she said quietly, and with a hint of severity ; " it does not speak strongly 
of your love that you should wish to pain me again by referring to it." 

Neither moved. In the dark his motionlessness seemed surcharged 
with a force that threatened her happiness. She could feel the touch 
of his coat-sleeve upon her arm, and feared to stir lest she come in 
contact with the living man behind it. She was annoyed, troubled, 
and wished to ignore the personality she loved. 

He blew a breath through his mustache and murmured something 
about the coldness of the Anglo-Saxon, then pushed open the door. 

" You cannot expect that I can continue like this forever," he said. 
" It is too much. I am patient, but I cannot forever submit myself 
to these nonsensical ideas and restrictions such as you might impose 
upon a boy. Bah ! I cannot see the reason in such stupidity." 

Charlotte turned when they had reached the top step; her face, 
cold and pale, was clearly visible to him in the lamp-light. " Jacques, 
you must not speak to me like that," she said; "you have no right, 
I do not deserve it." 

He stood looking down upon her ; his face also was pale and grave, 
his brows knitted. "You make me sometimes doubt that you have 
ever been sincere with me," he remarked in a tone that betrayed inward 
irritation. 

Though the words hurt her, the tone penetrated deeper. A quick 
comprehension of all that it might mean; the possibility that Thyra 
was right, that she was perhaps on the point of losing him. The 
chords of her heart, the nervous fibres of her whole being, had been 
so long strained upon this one topic, strained in uncertainty and dread, 
that now, in what seemed like a crucial moment, she was unable to 
defend herself, unable to utter a word that might help the situation. At 
the root of this neural paralysis was a cowardly shrinking from learn- 
ing the truth. 



152 Social Logic 

The woman in her, waked to all its full flower of sensibility through 
a physical and mental accordance with him, clung to him with the 
tenacity of young passion only checked by the puritanic outer shell 
of ancestral prejudice, the shell that slays all impulse, and crushes soul 
and body into the same cramped boundaries as were found sufficient to 
contain those of some bloodless and narrow-minded forefather. 

" Good-night," said d'Orlet, accepting her cold and unbending 
silence as dismissal. He held out his hand and uncovered, but his 
voice was still indicative of annoyance. 

" You have said some very cruel things/' returned Charlotte softly 
as she stepped through the door, which a servant had opened and left. 
Without consideration she ignored his hand and held her head high. 
" When you think them over you will regret having so unreasonably 
hurt me. Good-night." 

When she heard him move away without a word her heart sank 
heavily. She knew that he was angry; with that peculiar accuracy of 
perception engendered by love, she understood that there was a goodly 
share of wounded vanity in his anger, and instinct told her it was a 
dangerous element; for wounds dealt a man's self-esteem reflect de- 
fects in her who deals them, however dear she may be. An impulse 
tempted her to call after him, but the iron hand of education held 
her back, and made her close that hated door between herself and all 
that made up the world for her. 

The hallway was dimly lighted; Charlotte advanced up it with 
head bowed, lost in melancholy thought. 

Midway she came upon two persons conversing in an undertone; 
one a lady, heavily wrapped in a sombre-colored opera-cloak and hood, 
her face concealed by a dark-brown veil, the other a servant of the 
house. 

" Perhaps Miss Randolph can tell you, Ma'am," said the latter as 
Charlotte came up to them. " Miss Randolph, this lady's Mr. Brad- 
ford's sister and wants his address. Guess if anyone's got it, you or 
Miss Fenton has." 

Charlotte, waked from her troubled thoughts, looked up inquiringly 
at the woman, who at once turned her back to the light. 

" If you could tell me," she said in a very agitated voice, but one 
that expressed refinement, or rather the culture of good schooling and 
refined associations, " I shall be ever so grateful." 

" I know very little of Mr. Bradford's movements," returned Char- 
lotte, feeling little in the mood to sympathize with any woman's plight, 
although she realized this one was suffering from some excitement and 
anxiety of unusual character. " All he told me was that " 

" Come in here," interrupted the woman, giving her a little pull 
towards the parlor, then turning to the servant she put something in 



Social Logic 158 

his hand and thanked him. When they were alone she said breath- 
lessly : " It is best he should not hear. I shall tell you the truth. I 
Mr. Bradford is in trouble; he will be in great trouble unless I can 
reach him immediately. I must reach him; a half hour may be too 
late." 

" He told me he was going to a place called I am not sure At- 
wood, I think; but you could easily find it. It is on Twenty-eighth 
Street just east of Broadway, or it may be Twenty-seventh. Do you 
know that large church standing on the corner of " 

" Listen/' the woman interrupted with excitement. " Could you 
put yourself out for not more than half an hour, to help a man out 
of one of the most awful difficulties that could possibly have befallen 
him? Tell me." 

Charlotte recalled Bradford's handsome face, the trouble she had 
seen in it. " Yes, if it were in my power," she returned with feeling. 

"Well, come with me then. JSTo one shall ever know; it will be 
over in a half hour. I have a carriage hurry !" 

" You will see me back here again ?" 

" Certainly, within an hour." 

Without any further thought Charlotte followed the stranger from 
the house. She felt confident there was no make-believe in her tone 
of intense anxiety, and experience had not yet taught her the risk of 
trusting herself to the mercies of everyone who appealed to her with 
sufficient urgency. 

Before she had questioned herself whether or not it were wise, she 
was closed in a cab with this hooded and veiled unknown, rolling 
rapidly towards Fifth Avenue and down the avenue until Charlotte 
beheld the church for which she was on the lookout. At once the 
direction was given to turn and draw up before a house something like 
that they had left, but boasting the advantage of a large brass plate 
on which was inscribed " The Atley" in imposing characters. 

As her companion hesitated, Charlotte asked if she should accom- 
pany her. 

" Oh, thank you ?" she whispered in trembling tones ; " it would 
help me very much. Come quickly while these people are going in. 
They will help to conceal us." 

She leapt from the carriage with the agility and lightness of a young 
girl, and Charlotte quickly followed. 

The place was evidently of inferior character to the Madison 
Avenue house. Two women, yellow-haired, highly colored and per- 
fumed, and each leaning on the arm of a cavalier of the pomaded and 
newly polished sort, mounted the broad stoop with them. Charlotte's 
companion kept as close to this quartette as possible, and when one of 
the escort, a brazen fellow, with crooked eyes, an opera hat, which he 



154 Social Logic 

forgot to remove, and a blazing diamond in his scarf, paused to give 
an order to the gayly liveried boy at the door, she stepped towards him 
also and asked, almost before he had time to reply to the other, " Is 
Mr. Whortley Bradford in?" 

The boy leaned forward to open the door for another. " Think so, 
Ma'am," he replied. 

" Where is his room ?" 

" Second floor back, number sixteen." 

As her companion moved towards the staircase Charlotte whispered, 
" Are you going to his room ?" 

"I must," she replied. "You saw the parlor is crowded. There 
is no time to arrange the matter." 

" Well, of course, I cannot go in there ; I shall wait in the hall." 

" Very well ; thank you." 

They quickly mounted the dark stairway, which, after reaching a 
small landing, wound about and proceeded up in another direction. 
The second-floor hall was bewilderingly obscure ; only a gas-jet, turned 
very low and too high to reach, relieved the darkness sufficiently to 
enable them to see three feet ahead. In her anxiety to reach the room 
quickly Charlotte's companion thrust up her veil and peered with eager 
scrutiny at each door. Even in that dim light her identity was thus 
revealed to Charlotte, for no sooner had her eyes fallen upon that small, 
fair face than she recognized the well-known features of the great 
social leader and wife of the millionaire, Mrs. Bob Featherstone. It 
was decidedly a shock, for although the woman was personally unknown 
to her, the life and doings of her and her set had been long familiar, 
and her husband, the now almighty Bob, had often visited at Charlotte's 
house in Philadelphia during her early childhood. She thought of what 
Thyra had told her about Bradford, and wondered if this excited visita- 
tion were merely a proof of her penchant. 

" I shall wait out here," she whispered when Mrs. Featherstone at 
last found the number she sought. " Don't tell him I am here ?" She 
then hurried into shadow near the stairway, where a seat had been 
placed for those who needed rest to break the toilsome journey upward. 

In response to Mrs. Featherstone's gentle tap a voice, Bradford's, 
called out sharply and in a tone not over pleased, " Who's there ?" 

" It is I Harriet," she replied in low but clear tones. " Open the 
door quickly." 

There was a rapid step within, the door opened. Bradford was 
revealed for an instant against a strong light. His face expressed con- 
sternation. " You !" he exclaimed. " What are you doing here ?" 

"Let me in quickly," she replied with breathless haste, and the 
door closed upon them. 

Charlotte leaned her chin in her hand and dimly wondered what 



Social Logic 155 

it could all mean. The trouble in her heart, selfish and absorbing, pre- 
vented her grasping the true significance and evident seriousness of this 
clandestine meeting in which she had assisted. Vaguely she blamed 
Bradford; it added a new drop to the gall of her potion to find him 
falling so far below the high estimate she had unconsciously set upon 
him. Was this not, after all, a proof of what d'Orlet had said, the 
rottenness of the society whose criticism Thyra had feared? Had she 
acted like an unsophisticated fool in denying him every indulgence? 
Had she through a false idea of right and wrong, a peasant-like under- 
standing of propriety, sacrificed the happiness that might be offered 
only once in her lifetime ? 

Bradford's voice, somewhat raised, interrupted her brooding. 
" Come I" he said angrily, " I can't submit to this ; you must leave 
here! If Bob Featherstone comes here with any such accusation Fm 
ready to meet him. Come, I shall see you to your carriage." 

Then Mrs. Featherstone : " But he has proof ; he will bring a man 

here to-night who " Her voice falling lower, Charlotte could not 

distinguish the rest. She sat upright an instant, eagerly listening, her 
mind evolving a thousand explanations for the words, then d'Orlet's 
severe tone and look returned to her, she was impatient to get away 
from the dark hallway and to think over carefully the matter of their 
parting. 

The air here was stuffy with stale cigar-smoke and a melee of 
other flat and unpleasant odors. Now and then faint noises reached 
her from regions below, laughter and outbursts of levity, mingled with 
very unmusical beating of a piano. 

Then came the voices of persons ascending the stairs. They were 
speaking very low, and although the whispering carried to her, the 
words did not, until the two men reached the small landing immediately 
below her. Even then, so absorbed was she in hoping they would not 
notice her sitting there alone in the dark, she paid no attention to what 
they said, until one sentence penetrated her brain as though it had 
purposely been directed towards her. 

" I tell you she got wind that we were coming, and she came here to 
warn him! Don't I know? They said at home she slipped out all 
wrapped up and without even ordering the carriage. The man down- 
stairs saw her come in. Damn it! If I catch her hot-handed I've a 
right to kill them both, and I'll do it, by God ! if I die for it !" 

The voice was familiar, although Charlotte could not place it, and 
from where she was sitting she could not see the speaker. 

" Now, look here," said another more throaty and evidently that 
of an older man, " if you take my advice, you'll not make a scandalous 
mess of the business here in a house like this." 

"What! you'd have me go back like a dog and leave my wife 
in " 



156 Social Logic 

" Nothing of the sort talk lower, or you'll have some one hear 
you. Give me that revolver, and go up there coolly and fetch her out. 
You're not in a condition to go in upon them carrying that thing. 
What's the use of having your name figuring in an ugly newspaper 
story?" 

" Oh, to the devil with your arguments ! Let me pass ! Do you 
hear ? It's all very easy for you if you were in my place let me pass, 
I say?" 

Charlotte was on her feet; she sped across the hall noiselessly and 
in the shadow. The voice was recognized now: it was that of Bob 
Featherstone, and she knew there was no time to lose. 

Without pausing to knock she opened Bradford's door and noise- 
lessly locked it behind her. 

Before her Bradford was standing, his hands in his pockets, and 
his face quite pale and set. 

On her knees, at his feet, crouched Mrs. Featherstone. The faces 
of both were turned towards Charlotte, transfixed with astonishment 
and displeasure. With her finger to her lip she sprang towards them. 
" Hide yourself !" she whispered to the haggard and tear-stained woman, 
"your husband bas come; he is even now at the door! He suspects 
you are here be quick!" 

Mrs. Featherstone fell prone on the floor. " My God !" she groaned, 
" it is impossible to hide impossible ! He will force his way in." 

Bradford stood as though petrified. He neither changed in position 
nor in expression by so much as a hair's breadth. 

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Charlotte seized him by the arm. 
" You must do something !" she whispered in terror, " they are here at 
the door. Is there no other way out?" 

" No ; you see that is the only door !" 

They stood for an instant facing each other, both white and horrified ; 
and Mrs. Featherstone, lying at their feet, raised towards them a face 
even more ghastly. 

" Put her in the closet !" whispered Charlotte as she quickly gathered 
together the gloves, handkerchief, and cloak of the young woman and 

flung them out of sight. 

V. 

MEANWHILE Featherstone and his companion had briskly ap- 
proached the door, upon which the former rapped imperiously. 

" Who's there ?" answered Bradford from within. 

"Bert Gordon," said the elder of the two without. "Open the 
door ; I want to see you particularly." 

" Sorry, but I can't just now, Bert," came the reply, somewhat re- 
strained, but amiable, " I'm engaged. If you'll go downstairs I shall 
meet you there in ten minutes." 



Social Logic 157 

" Can't wait ; it's imperative that you open the door, Bradford ; 
what I have to say is urgent/' 

" Well, go down and I'll be with you immediately. You're only 
wasting time there, for I cannot and shall not open the door." 

" Well, I think you will !" came Featherstone's voice ; " we are two 
here, and if you don't open the door, we'll pretty soon have it open 
without your help. I suppose you know who I am !" 

" If you've been drinking, you fools, you'd better get out of here 
pretty quick ! What the devil do you mean by coming here like this ?" 

" You'll soon know what I mean ! Are you going to open this 
door?" 

Bradford's voice revealed growing anger as he replied : " Don't you 
attempt any fool business out there. I've my reasons for not opening 
the door, and all your row will come to nothing, so I'd advise you 
not to attempt any." 

Featherstone sprang with all his force against the unyielding portal. 
"We'll see!" he cried, quite beside himself with impatience and rage. 
" If you want a row, you'll have " 

Gordon pulled him back. " Don't be an ass, man," he said in a low 
tone. " Let's not have any publicity if it can be avoided. Let me 
talk to him, you hold your horses a moment! Bradford," he added, 
drawing close to the partition again and speaking scarcely above a 
whisper, and in that confident, persuasive tone easily adopted by his 
type of social busybody, " listen to me, old man. Featherstone is deter- 
mined to get into that room, and there's no use trying to keep him 
out. Don't let's make a public affair of the business. It will be better 
for us all around if you will accept the situation quietly and meet " 

"What the deuce are you talking about?" demanded Bradford 
savagely. " Why should Featherstone demand entrance to my room, 
I'd like to know ? Let him go " 

Featherstone dashed forward again. " I'll tell you !" he cried ; " I'll 
let you know when I face you and my " 

Gordon put a hand over his mouth. " Be careful," he said. " Damn 
it, old man, your're acting like a fool !" 

As he spoke the key grated in the lock, the door opened quickly, 
and Bradford appeared, drawing it to after him. 

" Now explain to me what you mean by this outrage !" he said with 
scorn. " How dare you come here to my room and create this disturb- 
ance?" He looked very handsome and formidable as he stood there, 
towering above the two society dandies, the door held almost closed 
behind him. 

"Whom have you in that room?" demanded Featherstone, his 
chubby, round face almost bursting with scarlet rage. " Tell me that, 
you you tell me that !" 



158 Social Logic 

Bradford's lip curled as he looked serenely down upon him. " What 
business is that of yours ?" 

"You'll see, by God! We'll see if you'll keep me out of there/' 
Once more the frenzied little man, with puffing breath, and round eyes 
starting out, sprang upon his tall antagonist. 

Bradford coolly threw him aside. " What does all this mean ?" he 
inquired quietly of Gordon. " Is he drunk, or mad ?" 

"It means that my wife is in there, and you know it!" blustered 
Featherstone, " and if Gordon won't help me to force my way through, 
I'll get someone who will." 

" Your wife ?" Bradford looked from one to the other with well- 
feigned astonishment. " What the devil what does he mean ?" 

" Don't try to put me off with your damned deceit I" snarled Feather- 
stone. " Gordon, are you going to help me, or shall I " 

"Yes, now!" whispered the other, and simultaneously, with the 
utmost of their united strengths, they threw themselves upon Bradford, 
who, taken by surprise, lost his footing and fell backward. The door, 
beneath the weight of the three together, crushed in, hurling them some 
feet into the room. 

Featherstone was the first to regain his feet ; his round eyes, gleam- 
ing like pale blue lights from a crimson face, swept about the room 
and lighted with a delighted flash upon a woman's form standing near 
the mantel, her back towards him and a brown veil drawn closely over 
her face. 

Immediately his mouth opened, his color receded quickly, leaving 
him pale. "God! the man lied!" he gasped; "it's it's someone 
else!" 

Bradford, having been the first to fall, was the last to rise. With 
a blow he thrust Gordon into the hall, then seizing Featherstone by his 
collar hurled him after. " You little beast !" he said, closing the door 
and following him, "you may insult your wife, but, by Heaven! you 
will not bring your prying, blabbing tongue into the life of any 
woman I know !" Again he caught the millionaire, and, with a wrench, 
threw him up against the wall. "Tell me, do you know that young 
woman in there ? Have you ever seen her before ?" 

" Never," gasped Featherstone. " By Heaven, it was a fool mistake, 
but the man downstairs told me he described her " 

" Get out !" snarled Bradford, dealing him a side blow on the head. 

" Take yourself off to chew the end of your vile suspicion. You , 

get off ! and be grateful there's a woman in there, for if she were not, 
I'd have licked you until your cries brought everyone in the house !" 

Featherstone, fired by the sting of the blow and these words, turned 
upon him like an inflamed bantam cock. " I'll give you that back first !" 
he cried, lurching out blindly. But his blow was warded off, and 



Social Logic 159 

Gordon, who was the taller and stronger of the two, dragged him off 
towards the head of the stairs in such a manner that his overcoat, 
gathered up about his throat, nearly strangled him and drove, the 
blood in a purple rush to his face. 

" I'm not done with you yet, my man !" he wheezed. " You were 
seen with my wife the night of our affair last week. I've got the man 
who will prove it. You were the last with her, and I'll track you 
down yet. It was for that I was coming here to-night. I'd have 
brought you face to face with the man who saw you." 

" Shut up, will you !" growled Gordon. " Do you want everyone 
in the house to hear?" 

But Bradford strode towards them. " No, let him speak," he said, 
" I should like to have this out now. This insinuation from you has 
reached me before, Featherstone, and now I'd like you to explain 
yourself." He spoke low but emphatically. 

Featherstone tried to shake himself free of his friend's grip. " Let 
me go, will you !" he panted, and continued to Bradford, " I'll tell you 
what you want to know pretty quick. Bob Alcott saw you with his 
own eyes take my wife from Sherry's in a closed carriage at one-thirty 
that night." 

"Well, and if I did? If her husband had been anything like a 
man should be, it wouldn't have fallen on an almost absolute stranger 
to take her at her request to her doctor's when she was feeling too ill 
to hold her head up. I think you would do better to be sure in future 
before you attempt to throw further shameful suspicion upon her 
good name." 

Featherstone nervously tried to right his rumpled collar. His eyes 
had become fixed on the carpet, his face wore a crestfallen and troubled 
expression. " She was seen to have her diamonds on when she left 

the place," he said, " and when she came back " he shrugged his 

shoulders. 

Bradford stepped close to him. " What do you mean by that ?" he 
demanded menacingly. 

Gordon attempted to intervene. "He's been drinking; he doesn't 
know what he's saying," he said conciliatingly. "Listen, someone is 
coming up." 

" I care nothing who is coming," returned Bradford without stir- 
ring. " Explain that." His eyes were fixed steadily upon Feather- 
stone's now doughy face ; he could feel the little man's quick breathing. 

" Perhaps I didn't mean anything," came in uncertain accents from 
the millionaire. "Damn it all! the whole thing's a hash, and comes 
from having anything to do with that meddling fool of an Alcott." 

"I'll settle with Alcott," said Bradford; "now you two get out 
of here, and don't let me see your faces again !" 



160 Social Logic 

Featherstone allowed himself to be thrust aside by Bradford and 
drawn towards the stairs by Gordon, who evidently considered silence 
the better part of discretion. " I've only done what any man would do," 
he said ; " there was every evidence that I was right. Of course, you 
have it in your power to use this eh episode if you like it's in your 
power to use it." 

" I should be obliged to come to you or your clever Alcott to learn 
how," returned Bradford contemptuously, " as being more versed in 
such dirty work, so you need not worry, one would be as distasteful as 
the other." 

Two persons, evidently returning from one of the theatres, now 
made their appearance, dragging themselves laboriously up the steep 
flight of stairs. Featherstone and Gordon discreetly made way for them 
in silence, then slipped downstairs, close to the banister. When he 
had watched them descend the second flight Bradford returned to his 
room. Charlotte was still standing, her head buried in her hands. The 
words spoken in the hall she could not help but hear, for the door, 
owing to its broken latch, was slightly ajar, and the awful insinuation 
Featherstone had uttered recalled to her mind suspicions that had been 
awakened during the midnight scene in Bradford's room. What it all 
signified could not from these fragments be ascertained, yet it deep- 
ened the cloud that had lowered upon her. Bradford was one in whom 
she had faith, and that a slur doubly dark should be thrown upon his 
character, both by this secret meeting and the hideous accusation, 
served to further depress her. In this perhaps lay the bitterest drop 
it threatened her confidence in her own decisions. 

She raised her head as Bradford entered; her straight little nose 
appeared proudly disdainful as she faced him. "Have they gone?" 
she asked. 

"Yes. Charlotte, you have acted splendidly." He spoke with 
suppressed emotion. " I hardly know how to thank you, or how to 
make amends for having allowed you " 

The closet door opened cautiously. " Has he gone ?" asked a faint 
voice in a whisper. 

Bradford turned his head; he did not attempt to approach her. 
" Yes ; you may come out with safety." 

Mrs. Featherstone, haggard and trembling, crept forth and sank 
into a chair. " I feel as though I should faint," she murmured, letting 
her head fall sideways. 

For the moment Charlotte could not bring herself to go to her; 
she was unable to conquer a strong repugnance and irritation. Then 
she went to a table where stood a bottle of whiskey, some water, and a 
glass, and mixing a small quantity gave it to the young woman. 

As the latter raised it to her lips she glanced towards Bradford, 



Social Logic 161 

who was standing as before, gazing with lowered brows at a fixed 
spot. 

" You are angry with me," she said, " you blame me for all this 
when my only object in coming here was to save you from it." 

" Your kind intentions are fully appreciated," he returned gravely, 
" but as I've told you before, an innocent man doesn't need to be fore- 
warned, and surely I am not one to fear meeting your husband or any 
other man in New York !" 

She swallowed a little from the glass and returned it to Charlotte. 
" Certainly, I could not know he would suspect I had come here," she 
said. "I knew it was the only thing to do, and I risked everything 
to save you a scene that might have proved very serious. But this 
is all the gratitude one can expect of a man." 

"The thing to consider now is how we are to get out of here. I, 
for one, should like to go home," said Charlotte. 

"It will be difficult," returned Bradford, taking two quick steps 
across the room and back, with his hands in his pockets and head 
bowed. 

" I shall never be able to return without being discovered," whined 
Mrs. Featherstone. "All this torture and danger, for what?" 

" Could you not go to some friend's for the night ?" asked Char- 
lotte. " It is not yet one o'clock. Is there no one you know well 
enough ?" 

" Oh, yes, I could go to my sister, she would do anything for me ; 
I have helped her often enough! It would mean waking her up, but 
she would never tell anyone, and her husband is away." 

"I have it," said Bradford quietly, pausing in his pacing. "You 
exchange wraps, then both come down with me. There is no one to 
fear but the doorkeeper, and if Mrs. Featherstone will wait in the 
shadow of the first landing, you and I, Charlotte, will go on to the 
door and send the boy for a cab. While he is absent Mrs. Featherstone 
can slip out and walk around the corner, where we shall meet; con- 
sequently if the door is being watched they will not see two women 
come out with me." 

" Alone !" exclaimed Mrs. Featherstone in reproachful surprise. " I 
can't go out at this time of night alone." 

" I think it will be safer than spending the night here," said Brad- 
ford sternly, "and I can see no other way of getting out. We can 
send your husband a telegram on the way saying you are spending the 
night with your sister. He will get it on his return to the house." 

This plan proved quite successful as far as getting out of the house 
without attracting attention, and Mrs. Featherstone was safely con- 
veyed to her sister's apartment on Seventy-fourth Street, where she 
easily obtained entrance and was unquestionably welcomed. 

VOL. LXXIV. 6 



162 Social Logic 

As the pretty little cause of all the trouble held out her hand in 
saying good-night to Charlotte she whispered, " I know my secret is 
safe with you, Miss Randolph, and although I cannot begin to thank 
you now for your assistance in this matter, if at any time you may 
need my help in any way please don't hesitate to come to me, and I 
shall give it, whatever your need may be/' 

Bradford did not leave the carriage, thinking it better not to be seen 
entering the apartment-house in company with Mrs. Featherstone, and 
when Charlotte returned to him he was leaning forward with both 
elbows on his knees and head in his hands. She gave the order and 
entered before he had realized her approach. 

" I have probably not gained much in your estimation by this 
affair/' he said dully after they had proceeded for a few moments in 
silence. " You can see it only from one point of view." 

" I am not considering it," she replied quite truthfully, for her 
thoughts had already reverted to the cause of her own heartache. " It 
was no curiosity that led me to go with Mrs. Featherstone. She made 
me believe you were in great danger, from which she alone could save 
you by reaching you in time. She thought she could not find your 
place quickly enough." 

He tried to get a closer glimpse of her face in the gloom. " It was 
very good of you. Don't think I am lacking in appreciation. Heaven 
knows, it was no pleasant experience for a girl like you to be con- 
nected with, but it grieves me to have had you witness it." 

" Oh, for that you need not worry ; I shall never speak of it, I 
promise you." 

Bradford turned towards her quickly. " Do you consider every man 
incapable of an unselfish thought ?" he asked. " I was not thinking of 
myself; besides," he uttered a short laugh, "my feelings have un- 
dergone a curious change. This last shock with Thyra has shaken the 
scales from my eyes. Things I held sacred yesterday are mere clay to- 
day. There is not a man, woman, or child for whose opinion I care a 
fig ! I have passed through the fire, and I have come out invulnerable. 
The human organism can suffer only to a certain point, just so much; 
after that the quick is benumbed nothing matters !" 

The words chilled his hearer; their sadness perhaps appealed less 
strongly than the reference to his feeling for Thyra. Was love, great 
and intense as his had been, so frail a thing ? " Do you mean that 
you have no further ambition?" she asked, merely for something to 
say and to get away from her thoughts. 

"Not the least shred of it. Yet I am not morbid, not half so 
unhappy as it was my custom to be when I hoped for much. I have 
reached the limit, the end of the lane, and know there is nothing to 
look for and nothing to fear. I can't explain to you. It is as though 



Social Logic 163 

I had suddenly penetrated behind the scenes of life and beheld the 
feeble, man-wrought machinery that runs it all : the wheel that grinds 
out pretty sounds; the tin pans that create terrifying thunder and 
lightning; the printed lines of honor, glory, and love!" Again he 
laughed, not bitterly but mirthlessly, as if even laughter had lost its 
significance, and sat back, stretching his shoulders. " But we are here," 
he added, quite in the same indifferent tone, and leaning over her to 
open the door as the cab drew up. " Fortunately, I still possess a 
latch-key to the house, so can let you in without raising a row." 

As they touched hands in saying good-night he remarked impres- 
sively, " I owe you gratitude, I know ; you certainly saved the situation 
to-night." 

" I should rather save you from yourself," returned Charlotte, 
trying to feel sympathy with his mood in spite of the fact that he 
appeared so little desirous of it. " A man without ambition drifts 
backward." 

" Oh, no, he goes with the tide," he laughed, " and the tide is always 
towards the ocean, oblivion; good-night." 

Wearily Charlotte toiled up the four creaking flights to her room, 
hoping there would be a letter there from d'Orlet even while pondering 
upon Bradford's last words. The ocean, oblivion! There was some- 
thing restful in the idea. She lighted the gas and looked about. There 
was no note, no sign that she had figured in the thoughts of anyone 
during her absence, only vacancy and the dull furniture mocking her. 
Then Jacques had not repented! The fact weighed upon her like a 
proof of his waning love. 

VI. 

FIVE days passed and d'Orlet neither put in an appearance nor sent 
word. Charlotte suffered as only a woman can suffer under such 
conditions, not the half-ecstatic delirium of tantalized passion, such 
as a man experiences when his love is put to the test, but a slow 
laceration of all those sensitive fibres that form, in the heart and mind 
of a woman, the delicate shell in which the fulness of her nature lies. 

Thyra noticed the change, and also that the Count came no more. 
Her spirits mounted in proportion; she became gayly companionable; 
her moody spells grew fewer; she even asked Charlotte to descend 
to the parlor with her when more than one of her thoroughly proper 
admirers dropped in of an evening. 

"What is the use of sitting up here alone and getting morbid, 
dear ?" she said with a genial lightness that hurt more than reproaches. 
" I think you have allowed that selfish brute to hurt you enough as it 
is. If you go on like this, you will never have any chance in life. 
Why don't you come down? You might get interested in someone 
else. Irving is very nice, and if you came down he might make up a 



164 Social Logic 

partie carree to go somewhere. That would be perfectly proper two 
girls and two men; we could do that. Won't you come?" 

Charlotte was sitting by the desk idly tracing lines on a bit of 
paper. She was frantically irritated, but her irritation felt unpar- 
donable. With an effort she looked up. " Do you want me to go down 
for your sake?" she asked. "Will my being there add to your 
pleasure ?" 

Thyra, who was regarding the back of her radiant head in the 
mirror by means of a hand-glass, shot a supercilious glance towards 
her friend. " Oh, I don't want you to make a martyr of yourself !" 
she said. " Certainly I am capable of entertaining two men ; this 
is not the first time. But it is ridiculous of you to sit up here 
and and brood over a person whom you have all along taken too 
seriously." 

Charlotte realized that she did not guess how deeply the words 
could hurt, yet for an instant she felt like striking back. A tumult 
of angry thoughts whirred through her brain; a frenzy possessed her 
like that one suffers when someone has ruthlessly torn or bruised a 
wound. She buried her teeth deep in the pencil she held and made no 
response. 

" Are you not coming ?" persisted Thyra when quite ready to 
descend. 

" No, I am going to bed." 

" Foolish," grunted the other ; " you will look back and regret this 
time wasted." 

For the first time in many months Charlotte wept. When the 
last sound of Thyra's footsteps died away, and the silence of that dull, 
cheerless room settled down upon her, she buried her aching head in 
her arms and sobbed, not the pettish sobs of a disappointed child, 
but tne heart-shakings of a woman who feels the world and life slip- 
ping from her. "Time wasted!" What was there left to fill time? 
Nothing! Without him she cared neither for time nor life it might 
end when it would, the sooner the better ! If she could die that night, 
there in that little, dreary room, he would know what had killed her; 

he would repent and grieve ! But She looked up ; the tears dried 

salty upon her lids; two rolled slowly and cold down her pale cheeks. 
Perhaps he would not care ! Bradford could scorn the woman he had 
loved less than a week before, why could not d'Orlet? If what Thyra 
said were true, if she had taken him too seriously, what would he care 
if she died? There were plenty of other women more attractive and 
more beautiful than she millions of them ! Thousands who were only 
too ready to give him warm, self-abandoning love, such as he com- 
plained she never gave. 

Other women appreciated him more than she had, women who 



Social Logic 165 

realized there were not many men like him handsome, talented, well 
off. To be his Countess what would they not do ? His Countess ! 

She crossed the room restlessly twice, then threw herself on the 
bed. Wild thoughts rushed upon her; reckless and impassioned feel- 
ings set every nerve quivering. To have him back she would give up 
everything ! She would snap her fingers in the world's face ! She 
would throw herself at his feet ! He might do with her what he would ! 
demand of her what he wished ! Only to feel his embrace again, to know 
that he loved her! 

She tossed and groaned into the pillow; then, exhausted, lay, 
neither weeping nor grieving, but staring up at the white ceiling. 
Thyra's cautious philosophy, the philosophy she was so fond of airing, 
crept in upon her. He sees you are poor and alone. His experience in 
France has made him believe that any woman will succumb in time 
to temptation. He offers everything but marriage. They always have 
an excuse for not being able to marry ! Of course, he has said nothing 
to betray his real feelings towards you, because he is too clever, he 
sees that you would not permit him yet to say anything out of the way 
to you. Think of the things he had hinted to you about women here 
and in Paris, hinted clearly enough for you to understand ; that is all 
to undermine your nice ideas, to make you more worldly, more pliable ! 
If anything should happen, who is there to protect you, or to blame 
him? You are at his mercy! That is why he gives up time to you, 
rather than to women who have fathers and brothers to protect them. 
In a little time, when every other man drops off, you will be dependent 
upon him, you are dependent upon him even now! Who else do you 
ever see? Time is passing, you are getting older, and your life in a 
boarding-house is not likely to offer many opportunities. What is the 
use of throwing away every possible chance for a dangerous uncer- 
tainty? 

Then she would wildly toss again and groan into the pillow, " Be- 
cause I love him, love him ! Why should I try to marry a man I care 
nothing for, and lose him whom I love? But would it be happiness 
to see my very love despised, to have him scorn me when he grows 
tired? "When a man once loses respect for you," Thyra had said, 
" his love goes out of the window ! I don't think you would ever permit 
a man to say or even hint anything that could in anyway threaten 
your self-esteem, no well-born woman could, but if this relation lasts 
much longer between you and d'Orlet, I'm afraid you will be com- 
promised in the eyes of the world, and then you will be more at his 
mercy than ever. It is certainly not right for you to go on as though 
you were legitimately engaged." 

Not right? no, it was not right perhaps to acknowledge a conven- 
tional bond that in reality could not exist, but what of the moral 



166 Social Logic 

bond? What of the soul sinews that bound her to him? How could 
those be severed, now, without spilling her life's blood? 

Again the warm essence of her woman's heart flowed blindingly 
into her eyes and rolled rapidly, in great, stinging drops, down upon 
the pillow, for grief, even the grief of love, is three-fourths self-com- 
passion. 

The next day, to keep her thoughts out of the one absorbing channel, 
she started the designs Mr. Greenley had ordered. Although the 
memory of the man was hateful to her, and his insinuating manner 
had made her determine not to submit anything more to him, the state 
of philosophic callousness into which she had sunk made it necessary 
for her to do something, and it mattered little to whom she submitted 
them. Indeed, as the days passed and no word came from d'Orlet, a 
certain defiance of spirit awoke in her. She blamed him ; in the secret 
chamber of her heart she called him many ugly names, and this brooding 
fiend fathered an unlovely desire to grasp happiness by whatever not 
too debasing means, and to lift herself out of the mire of depression 
into which d'Orlet had apparently so ruthlessly cast her. 

One afternoon, when the last touch had been added to four of the 
best designs she had ever made, a letter was brought to her by the 
maid. As her fingers touched it what little color remained in her face 
disappeared. She held the missive a moment, staring in a dazed way 
at the handwriting and postmark. The latter bore in heavy lettering 
" Palm Beach." She broke the seal slowly and read : 

" DEAR CHARLOTTE : You see I am far away. When I 
left you that night a week ago I felt that it would be much 
better that we should separate, that I should no more worry 
your life, as you said I did. All I proposed you found wrong 
and evil. Such conditions could not exist where true love is. 
It was hard and cruel to believe that you did not love me, but 
you have shown it clearly in many ways. 

" Formerly I was blinded. Because I loved so deeply, I 
could not think you did not return it. I hoped that when you 
learned to know me well your love would reveal itself, you 
would hide nothing. I was mistaken, is it not so ? The world, 
what others think, means more to you; I come second. Ah, 
well, ma che'rie, you may not be wise in this; you can never 
satisfy a man who really loves you by such treatment. Coldness 
is incompatible with love the one kills the other. My love 
was of the best, and you judged it through the eyes of others! 

"If you desire it then, adieu; if my wishes must come 
always second to the dictates of others, I must forget I love 
you. Comme tou jours. JACQUES." 

" P. S. If you feel that I am right, write to me and tell 
me all that you think, and promise me to be good when I come 
back." 



Social Logic 167 

She could see nothing in the written words but a cold indifference, 
a severe ocular demonstration of the change which she concluded, after 
days of miserable consideration, had come over his feelings towards 
her. 

" Here is a letter from Jacques ?" she said to Thyra, who was sitting 
near, freshening up an evening waist. 

The lovely, flame-colored head was lifted; a curious expression 
flitted across Thyra's face; the eyes widened quickly, then narrowed. 
" Oh, really ! Has he deigned to write ? What has he been doing ?" 

" He is down at Palm Beach." 

Thyra's hands and work fell in her lap. " Oh, I see !" she ejacu- 
lated with a knowing smile, " the Mitf ords are there." 

" How do you know ?" 

" I saw it in ' Town Topics' on Sunday." 

" Was there any mention of Jacques ?" 

" No, but that signifies nothing. He may have been mentioned 
before. This was merely an account of a luncheon given there at which 
Mrs. Clarence Mitford was a guest. Pooh! he follows that woman 
about everywhere. That's what I hate about Frenchmen, they always 
tack themselves to people with whom they have no fear of being seri- 
ously entangled, unless they are looking for money." 

"Don't be so prejudiced, Thyra," said Charlotte wearily. She 
feared to trust herself; and yet the harshness of Thyra's views de- 
stroyed her confidence in her friend's judgment. " I should like you 
to read this," she added a moment later, " but I don't want you to see 
it only in the worst light. Try to look at it from his point of view. 
I am so tired I am not able to judge for myself." 

Thyra took the note, and after perusing it she snorted, then read it 
once again before remarking, with impressive seriousness, " There is 
no use, Charlotte, I cannot have faith in that man ! I have read this 
as leniently as I possibly can, but it rings hollow! It is easy enough 
for him to throw the blame on you when he goes away to enjoy him- 
self. He went down there because it promised amusement; what did 
he care for all you have suffered? Now he writes because he will 
soon be coming back, and he thinks he can frighten you, that the loneli- 
ness you have suffered will make you ready to crawl back to him! 
Bah! Anyone who is not blinded with love could see through his 
behavior lately. It is disgusting !" 

Charlotte's eyes, darkened by deep rings, gazed dreamily into va- 
cancy; her wan little face was enough to soften anyone's heart. But 
Thyra, actuated partly by a self-adopted responsibility, and partly by a 
belief in conditions that constant repetition had endowed with a sem- 
blance of truth, persisted in her denunciation, and with that wondrously 
clever insight into the evil workings of another's mind, which is so often 



168 Social Logic 

a surprising feature in women of self-avowed innocency and chastity, 
attributed to d'Orlet intentions and scheming that were worthy a court 
intrigue. 

Of course they were thoughts that had never occurred to Charlotte, 
and consequently fell with double force upon her overwrought and 
weary mind. 

" Some day when he finds that your love for him is the most 
powerful element in your life," continued Thyra, seeing the effect of 
her outburst, " he will propose some lovely trip or other. Oh, it makes 
me furious! Think how he may already have hurt you! I knew the 
thing was wrong from the beginning ; I knew that you would find him 
out sooner or later. Oh, I do hope that no one has noticed his atten- 
tions to you; but, of course, they have. You may have ruined yourself 
for life!" 

Charlotte at this point was meditating whether or not she would 
confide d'Orlet's proposition about installing her in an apartment, but 
these last words decided her. She started up. " Oh, there is no use 
making the matter appear worse than it is," she said, " and, after all, 
what do I care what people think ? What do I owe people ? Who would 
pick me up if I were dying in an attic ? Pooh I" She crossed the room 
briskly and stood by the farthest window. 

"Well, even if you don't care for what people say, you have your 
own self-respect," said Thyra with superior emphasis. " The blood 
of your ancestors would keep you from doing something you could 
never undo debasing yourself, coming down to the low level of the 
worst of women !" 

Charlotte turned. "Who are and where are these worst of women 
you are always harping upon?" she demanded. "What do you know 
of them, and why do you know anything of them ?" 

Thyra bent over her work. " Everyone who knows anything of the 
world knows there are bad women," she said. " I don't know where 
they are, but I do know they exist." 

" Yes, probably they do, perhaps nearer than you think there are 
worse things than defying the world for one you love !" 

" Oh Charlotte !" Thyra looked at her with a mingling of fear 
and disgust, "how can you talk so? You make me afraid for your 
future, dear; you make me miserable." 

But Charlotte was not in a mood either for sympathy or reproof ; 
for the moment she hated her friend with all the rest of the world. 
" Oh, you need not moralize over me any more," she cried, " I am 
tired of it. For Heaven's sake take care of your own soul; that is as 
much as any one person can do." 

Nevertheless, Thyra's warnings fell, as usual, upon fallow ground, 
Charlotte's condition having become susceptible through bygone argu- 



Social Logic 100 

ment and her own disturbed reasoning her own distrust of the 
future. 

Long after Thyra had fallen asleep that night she sat up reading 
and rereading d'Orlet's letter, perusing replies only to destroy them, 
trembling at the prospect of life without him, scorning ever to take 
him back again under the existing conditions. The pain she had suf- 
fered during the two weeks of his silence a pain of no insignificant 
proportion measured itself with her love, and although that love 
towered above it, there threatened a shadow of more pain beyond that 
seemed immeasurable. 

It was this shadow that made her finally decide not to reply to 
the letter, and made her also court sleep vainly until the morning 
dawned, haunted by alluring visions of the ocean, oblivion. 

VII. 

WHEN, several days later, she took her designs to Mr. Greenley she 
found him more gallant than ever and more revolting. He desired 
certain changes to be made in two of the designs, but wished, never- 
theless, to pay for them in advance. This Charlotte could not agree 
to; she resented his too evident eagerness to please, his apparent in- 
tention to impose upon her a sense of obligation. But there had come 
to her a new ambition; she meant to amass a certain sum and with it 
take a course in porcelain painting whereby to secure a more lucrative 
and interesting means of livelihood. For this reason she tried to 
excuse the advances of her ancient Croasus, attributing them to the 
foolish vagaries of a decaying intellect, striving to ignore his hideous 
smiles and grimaces as she did the fetid breath that accompanied every 
earnest word. In her heart she was ashamed that she endured any of 
it, and consequently told nothing to Thyra, but patiently worked with 
that one idea in view, laying by what she received regularly for her 
designs. 

One day the millionaire was particularly attentive, and ended by 
asking her to visit his superb country place; for it was now spring, 
and the idea of a day in the beautiful country certainly held many 
attractions. She, however, declined with some coldness, whereupon 
Mr. Greenley immediately and quickly added that he had, of course, 
intended that she should bring someone else a relative or friend; he 
would not think of desiring her to compromise herself by coming alone 
not he ! 

This put another face on the matter, and on a day appointed she 
and Thyra met him and were taken to a fine old residence in the 
suburbs, given a luxurious luncheon, and driven behind a matchless 
pair of high steppers all through the sweet, newly awaking country. 

The season's seductive breath, the easeful motion, the almost for- 



170 Social Logic 

gotten sense of luxurious living, stirred old longing in the girl; she 
dreamed of bygone ambitions, of cherished possibilities now lost. 

Thyra did most of the talking indeed, she waxed surprisingly 
conversational and clever; the old man was sufficiently amused, in 
spite of Charlotte's dreaming. 

" He could make us have an awfully nice time/' remarked Thyra on 
their return home. " There is no one dependent upon him now, and 
just think of the limitless wealth he has \" 

" Think of one having a ' nice time' with that awful face always 
near and that breath ! It tainted the very zephyrs of spring !" 

" Oh, it isn't any worse than that of most old men. Poor old fellow, 
he deserves a little consideration. Think of all he has done for you !" 

As usual, after a talk with Thyra, Charlotte was duly impressed 
with her own ingratitude, and even reproached herself for her severe 
judgment of Mr. Greenley. After all, he had been kind, and she 
revealed more appreciation of his goodness when next they met, an 
agreeable change, which assured the old dotard that the day's outing 
in the country had raised him in her estimation. He kept her long 
talking, and even waxed eloquent and a trifle tender in his praises of her 
intelligence and beauty, a species of imbecility she was grateful he did 
not indulge in before Thyra, whose scoffing jokes upon his attentions 
had already caused her much embarrassment. 

Towards six-thirty o'clock of this same day a note was put into 
Charlotte's hands just as she was taking her place in the stuffy dining- 
room. It was from d'Orlet and written hastily in pencil. 

The shock it caused her was decidedly more of pain than pleasure; 
it bruised rather than thrilled her heart. So dejected was her spirit, 
so run down her whole nervous system, that as she broke the great seal 
with its tiny coronet she felt really displeased that he should thus 
unexpectedly intrude upon the stoic resolutions she had so courageously 
arrived at. 

The note was hurried, and ran: 

" Chgrie, I want you to dine with me. Have just returned. 
While I am dressing will you jump into the cab I have sent 
with this and come down to Delmonico's? I shall be awaiting 
you on the step. Mrs. Clarence Mitford will act as chaperon 
and we can talk things over later. So put on something pretty 
and come. Tout a toi. 

" JACQUES." 

As she read the words she could see only the confidence they 
expressed, she discerned nothing more tender lying beneath. It was 
but the whim of a selfish man ! He wished to compare her wan face 
with that of this affluent young society leader, perhaps to cure himself 



Social Logic 171 

of some lingering fancy by beholding her at so great a disadvantage ! 
The missive appeared excessively cruel in its light-heartedness after all 
she had suffered. She tossed it over to Thyra. 

" What do you think of that ?" she asked. 

As her friend perused it her lip curled. 

"He seems pretty confident you will toddle to him at a whistle/' 
she said, " and imagine wishing you to go and meet him ? I think it 
is most discourteous." 

" Oh, that is nothing ; he must have time to dress," returned Char- 
lotte, defending a point she had already criticised in her heart, " and 
as Mrs. Mitford is to be there to meet me, there is nothing wrong in 
my going down alone in a cab." 

" Do you mean to say you are going !" with a stare of unmitigated 
astonishment. 

" No, I am not ; but that is not the point that deters me. I think 
he is too sure. Besides, I have suffered too much to begin this all over 
again." 

" You are perfectly right, dear and yet, it would be a good chance 
to meet Mrs. Mitford; she rules everything here. She might take an 
interest and provide opportunities for us." 

" Pooh ! no, thanks. This matter is more serious to me than that. 
I suppose he thinks I am sitting home alone pining for him !" 

" Whereas you are out having a lovely time !" laughed Thyra. 

" Well, I shall make him think I am, even if I'm not," said Char- 
lotte as she arose to go in search of writing materials. On the way 
upstairs she did not allow herself to consider the situation. She ob- 
tained a peculiar satisfaction in acting, blindly, as one does in striking 
at a bee that buzzes, perhaps with no harmful intent, about one in a 
troubled moment. She wanted both to punish him for his seeming 
indifference, and to finish forever the rack and torment of his inter- 
mittent attentions. She wrote hurriedly: 

" I am so sorry, but I cannot possibly dine with you this 
evening, having already promised myself to some friends. I 
a.m writing this in great haste, as I dress, so hope you will 
pardon it. As ever, 

" CHAEtOTTE." 

The next morning she received a long letter from d'Orlet flavored 
with that proprietary discipline exercised by men who are accustomed 
to the yielding and dependent love of the French women. He re- 
proached her for allowing herself to be ill-advised by persons who 
could not possibly understand the conditions existing between them, 
and criticised a love that could so easily be influenced. To this he 
added that he had hoped they might be reconciled before his departure 



172 Social Logic 

for Paris, which unexpected tidings had made necessary for the fol- 
lowing Thursday. He had merely wished to be with her a part, at 
least, of his four remaining days. 

Though this information was a shock, Charlotte had too much free 
blood to ignore the sting of tyranny she fancied lurked in the calmly 
written words. The sorrow caused by the news of his intended depart- 
ure was somewhat assuaged by resentment at his indifference in so long 
concealing from her his plans. This added pang was like a sudden 
jar to a wound; it frenzied her, and made everything appear in an 
offensive light. She fumed about the room for some moments, deciding 
first one thing, then another. Thyra was out, a circumstance for which 
she was grateful, for she meant to think the situation over until she came 
to some decision that should be entirely independent of others. 

For more than two years her association with d'Orlet had been a 
series of heartaches, endured in silence for the most part, and stoically 
denied even to her own conscience. But lately her courage had begun 
to fail ; the superfluous straw had been added. In d'Orlet's suggesting 
a private apartment seemed to culminate all her fears, all Thyra's sage 
suspicions; it had shocked into sudden substantiality the many little 
misgivings gradually engendered as to the righteousness of bearing so 
close a relation to a man legally and morally bound to another. 

Towards three in the afternoon the crucial moment was reached; 
she crossed the rubicon with the reckless haste of a suicide. 

The letter she wrote him was quite lengthy; it was kind, rational, 
and had he been any other than a Latin he might have seen it left a 
wide opening for him to prove without foundation the arguments she 
set forth against the wisdom of their further intercourse. 

But it is difficult for a Frenchman to sympathize with the prac- 
tical reasoning of the Anglo-Saxon in matters of the heart. A woman 
to prove her love to him must reveal it as stronger and more resistless 
than both her religion and her self-esteem. Consequently Charlotte 
received in reply a passionately angry note, blurred and underscored, 
denouncing her love as not worthy the name, and stating with bitter 
emphasis that his gifts, which she had returned with her letter, even 
to the smallest token, he had crushed beneath his heel, as an insult no 
woman had ever before ventured to offer him. The little pearl-studded 
comb she had worn in her silken hair, the ring, the oddly constructed 
bracelet hung with tiny nuggets of gold from one of his own mines in 
the West, the pins and dainty amulets all, he said, had been crushed 
to dust in a frenzy of wounded pride such as a d'Orlet had probably 
never before experienced ! 

To Charlotte the note seemed unreasonably cruel, and doubly so 
because he both ignored the openings she had purposely left for him 
and the pain she had suffered. She did not consider that he too might 



Social Logic 173 

have suffered, Tor ocular demonstration is usually necessary to convince 
a woman that a strong man, who has much of this world's goods, can 
suffer as does she. 

The letter was like a blow; she bowed under it for a week, then 
deliberately closed her heart upon the whole episode and tried to 
believe herself content. 

VIII. 

BUT even Mr. Greenley noticed the ravages grief had made upon 
her. Two weeks later, when she carried her latest designs to his office, 
the bleared eyes studied her critically. 

"You are growing thin," he said, and one claw-like hand pounced 
upon hers in a way it had in spite of her resentment. To-day she was 
too weak and weary to throw it off; a kind word, even though uttered 
by that revolting mouth, threatened to melt her to tears. 

Greenley was not slow to notice the unusual complacency beneath 
his touch; he perceived also a sweetly threatening moisture in the 
lovely eyes that avoided his and fluttered their lid,s in an effort to 
restrain tears. 

Unperceived by her, a quick gleam came into his cloudy pupils, the 
great nether lip quivered He caught it between his teeth an instant; 
then, drawing nearer, whispered with an emotion that was peculiarly 
unhuman, " You are working too hard ; this life you lead is not suitable 
for you." 

At that moment the spring of her tears, restrained through all 
those lonely days, would probably have burst forth had a dog licked 
her hand, and now the eyes filled. 

" Oh, no," she said hurriedly, turning away and struggling des- 
perately to find her handkerchief, " I have a little headache, it is 
nothing !" 

" I know what it is," he returned, drawing still closer. " You are 
lonely; your life is empty; you have none of the things that make 
a young woman's life happy. Come to me, let me give you everything. 
I shall make you my wife, and you shall have everything I possess !" 

Before she realized it, his arms were about her; she felt herself 
drawn forcibly to him, felt his odorous breath upon her cheek, and 
saw that awful mouth bearing down upon her. Instinctively she uttered 
a cry to save herself the calamity of having it touch her, a cry that must 
have penetrated to the outer offices. 

Greenley partly released her. " Sh !" he whispered. " Why do you 
make a noise? Why do you shrink from me? I am not young, I 
know, but I shall devote the remainder of my life to you; I shall 
give up the business and take you all over the world, that's a fact ! No 
young man could give you half what I have to offer. Don't push me 
away." As he resisted the girl's frantic efforts to free herself, " Listen 



174 Social Logic 

to what I have to say, and I mean every word of it, that's a ract ! I 
love you, and I offer you what I thought I should never be willing to 
offer to any woman again. Every desire of your heart shall be gratified ; 
you shall have your mansion in every capital of the world if you wish 
it, your yacht, horses all that an empress might desire." 

" Don't please let me go I" pleaded Charlotte, feeling stunned and 
terrified, as though she had been seized by a ruffian in the street. 

The arms closed more fiercely about her, like the talons of a beast 
at the threatened escape of its prey. " No no I have you ! I have 
longed to hold you against me, to feel you are all mine !" Again that 
mouth hovered above her, and every nerve in her body quivered with 
dread. 

" I shall scream I" she panted breathlessly ; " let me go, or I shall let 
everyone outside know!" 

The threat told; he hesitated. The gleaming eyes expressed the 
struggle he was having with himself. He gathered her closer in a 
spasm of self-indulgence, and swooped down upon the lovely, frightened 
face. Charlotte turned in time to receive the hideous kiss upon her 
hair, then she felt herself free. 

" Let me go !" she panted, reeling back against the desk with sudden 
f aintness. " Let me out of here. You have insulted me grossly 
grossly !" 

Greenley, breathing heavily, his face flushed to an ugly floridness, 
his eyes glistening, turned the key noiselessly in the lock. 

" Not yet," he said, " you must wait until you are calmer, until 
you can think this over quietly. Insulted you ? Nonsense ! You don't 
realize that I have proposed marriage to you, the marriage of the 
law that binds ; you shall be my legal wife, stepmother to the Duchess 
de Mentino, successor to all I possess !" 

Charlotte scarcely heard the words ; her senses seemed on the point 
of leaving her; objects in the room grew large and threatening, then 
faded into insignificance, rocking and twirling fantastically. 

Greenley took a salt-bottle from the desk and held it to her nostrils ; 
she felt his arm creeping about her again, and, thus stimulated to action, 
sprang out of his reach. 

"I insist upon being let out of here!" she exclaimed haughtily. 
" Open the door at once, or I shall positively cry out for help." 

" Don't you know that will hurt you as much as me ?" he said with a 
vindictive leer. "Your attitude is not flattering. What have I done 
more than any man might, merely proposed honorable marriage. You 
are mad, or you would not blindly reject such an offer." 

"I came here to see you on business, trusting to your honor as a 
gentleman not to impose upon the confidence I placed in you, and you 
subject me to this insult." 



Social Logic 175 

The color had faded from the old man's face now; it became a 
ghastly yellow. "You consider my love my honorable proposal an 
insult ?" he wheezed with an angry hiss. 

His anger was almost as awful as his love-making. Charlotte in- 
wardly shrank before the sight of his contorted visage. He did not 
spare her, but stood waiting for her reply, ugly passion gathering the 
flabby yellow skin into satanic creases about his mouth and eyes. " This 
you call an insult, do you?" he repeated pitilessly. 

" I call it an insult to to force it upon me ; to take advantage of 

my being alone to to " She broke off confusedly, but the words 

appeared to carry sufficient meaning to Greenley. He became reflective 
and looked away from her. 

" Perhaps I was too hasty/' he said. " I feel things so deeply. Try 
not to take offence. Kemember, men are not like women, even older 
men, and believe that everything I've said to-day I mean, to the last 
jot." He turned the key noiselessly and again opened the door. " When 
you think it over you will realize that I am not offering you a mere 
name and a ring, and what I have said is not uttered upon a wild 
impulse." 

Charlotte, stung to the core with disgust, feigned not to see the 
hand he extended. 

" What ! you will not take my hand ?" he wheezed, " you decline to 
take my hand ?" 

She hesitated; his rage frightened her. Then she looked him 
straight in the eyes. " No, Mr. Greenley, I can't," she said distinctly, 
though her voice was unsteady. 

The old man stared at her; his underlip had become grayish blue. 
Charlotte could not take her eyes from it; the entire gnome-like face 
seemed to enlarge, every detail became magnified with horrible clearness. 
" You can't ?" he whispered vindictively ; then, as though impelled by 
a reckless frenzy, he lurched towards her. But Charlotte had seized 
her opportunity and stepped quickly into the next apartment. 

As she passed along the dark corridors and down the stone steps she 
recalled the burning shame with which she had traversed them upon 
her first visit to the millionaire's office. How much greater was her 
shame now ! A deadly chill, she felt could never leave her, settled upon 
her heart. She felt guilty of a misdemeanor that must never be re- 
vealed to anyone, not even to Thyra. 

How disgusted Thyra would be ! The very fact of her having over- 
looked his first advances, his evident interest and wish to assist her, 
would appear horrible to a girl of Thyra's refinement. 

Even the little she had seen on the occasions she had accompanied 
Charlotte to Greenley's office had called forth from her scornful com- 
ments upon his too evident interest. What would she say if she knew to 



176 Social Logic 

what Charlotte had been subjected in that hour. She determined 
never to confess the horror, never by a sign to give any suggestion 
of it. 

The hot and dreary summer passed in idleness, for having no ready 
market for her work, she ceased making designs. After paying a short 
visit to some friends at Long Branch the two girls retired to a cheap 
boarding-house in the country where their associates were school- 
teachers, old women, and clerks. Thyra never once spoke of Bradford, 
a circumstance that puzzled Charlotte. He seemed to have gone as 
utterly out of her thoughts as though he had never existed, whereas 
Charlotte often found herself wondering what had become of him, and 
had, on one or two occasions, even referred to him in conversation only 
to receive always the same indifferent reply: Thyra neither knew nor 
cared what had become of him. The latter had won an admirer while 
at Long Branch, who occasionally came out to take her on a drive, 
but he was not of the ilk Thyra aspired to, therefore his attentions gave 
her little pleasure. 

" Why don't you do any more work for Mr. Greenley ?" she asked 
one day. 

" Because he has ordered none," replied Charlotte quietly. 

" Well, if I were you I should write to him ; he has been very kind, 
and you are foolish to lose a friend like that. What are you going 
to do when your money is all gone ?" 

" I don't care die, I suppose." 

But Charlotte did not die; when the heat of the summer was over 
a new dream began to stir in her heart, to get away from New York 
away from America ! To see some of the splendors of the Old World 
Paris perhaps ; Paris, where d'Orlet lived ! She paid two dollars to an 
agency purporting to find employment for "ladies," but receiving no 
communication from that quarter, searched the newspapers' columns 
and made two applications as companion to ladies going abroad. As 
she could speak no foreign language fluently, and was otherwise less 
qualified than the many experienced women of all ages and stations 
clamoring for the places, she, of course, secured neither. 

The money she had been paid by Mr. Greenley could not last 
forever, she realized that, and yet it was a moral impossibility to 
settle down to the drudgery of making designs she was not sure of 
selling. An unconquerable inertia had come to paralyze her will; 
even her mind grew vagant, the very grief in her heart became un- 
defined. 

One day after returning to the city she sat with arms folded on the 
dressing-table studying her reflection in the glass. She had grown 
thinner, and there had come fine lines to the corners of her mouth. 
These signified age to her depressed state of mind. She was fading; 



Social Logic 177 

her day would soon be over; this was sad, but it was still sadder that 
she did not care. And yet ! The very loveliness of the little, sad face 
looking back at her made her sorry. If only she had never seen 
d'Orlet ! Or if she had held him dearer than the world ! 

The old, tormenting thought returned: had she been unjust to 
him? had she underrated his love? After all, was the suffering she 
had endured for nearly two years a satisfying compensation for the 
sacrifice she had made? What was gained? Day by day she faded, 
day by day drifted nearer to the abhorred sphere of hideous mediocrity, 
a stale existence, at the thought of which her very soul shuddered. She 
had loved, been loved with a sublime, disinterested passion. What 
more could be expected of life of heaven ? 

She could never love again, never in the same way; yet she had 
thrown all away and for what ? 

She arose and crossed over to the window. After a few moments, 
as many times before, she began to see the beauty of what she had 
done, she began to be proud of herself, to be sure d'Orlet honored her 
above all other women for the strength she had shown, for her virtuous 
self-esteem. There was something, after all, in the blood bequeathed 
by a long line of self -restrained gentlefolk! There was something 
lovely in a womanly, virtuous being like Thyra; although Charlotte 
considered her friend a trifle too narrow-minded on some points, she 
appreciated that she stood above the dirtiness of the world. Thyra, 
she thought, held her passions in check, she could never take a false 
step, never belittle herself. Some words the girl had uttered returned 
to her : " Men don't value women who cheapen themselves ; they like 
to find in them everything opposite to themselves; they admire 
strength where they are weak, weakness where they are strong." 

But where was the advantage of anything while he was in one 
world and she in another? Moralizing was all very well, but 

Here there came a knock at the door, and the maid entered with 
a card. 

Charlotte's heart leapt in wild expectation; she read the name at 
a glance, then stared at it in astonishment while her groundless ecstasy 
waned. 

"Mrs. Eobert Featherstone." 

"Is she downstairs?" she asked, turning the card over mechani- 
cally. 

" She's sittin' in the parlor," was the reply, and there Charlotte 
found her when she descended five minutes later. Mrs. Featherstone 
was arrayed in a superb costume of gray panne velvet with a ravishing 
chapeau to match. Every inch of her dainty little person had been 
carefully considered and shown off to its best advantage. 

As Charlotte entered she arose and extended a white-gloved hand. 



178 Social Logic 

" You are probably astonished by this visit/' she said, " but I felt that 
I must see you, as I heard from a mutual friend of your aunt's and 
mine that you are desirous to accompany some one travelling abroad; 
is it so?" 

Charlotte's breath was taken away by the suddenness of this; but 
although she had an instinctive aversion towards the woman, she felt 
that she understood why she took interest and determined not to 
throw away such a chance. She therefore made no bones about stating 
what she aimed for; and in a few moments it transpired that Mrs. 
Featherstone was looking for just such a person to accompany her 
unmarried sister to the South of France, where it was thought necessary 
she should spend the winter. Of course, Charlotte was delighted, and 
after some more talk the matter was as good as settled even to the 
time of departure, which was to be the beginning of the following 
month. To the girl's acknowledgment that she had never travelled 
abroad and was not fluently familiar with any foreign language Mrs. 
Featherstone replied it was sufficient that she spoke French well enough 
to make herself understood, as her sister only required someone who 
was not too exacting to go about with her. 

After every point had been thoroughly discussed and settled, the 
young matron subsided into nervous silence, fidgeting a little at her 
gown and the gold purse she carried. " I have been trying to manage 
some way of our meeting," she said, "but if you come to the house 
Mr. Featherstone might see and recognize you, and I was afraid to 
come here too soon after after that night. You were very clever on 
that occasion, and I want you to know I appreciate it." She looked 
into Charlotte's face both kindly and critically. Hers were the round, 
closely set, gray-blue eyes of a moral coward, the eyes of a woman who 
would dare much under cover, but little above-board, a nature made up 
of superficial passions and vanities, whose emotions lay between the 
skins, and were easily fathomed. Consequently when aflame they 
were difficult to disguise, but, like an irritation of the skin, became 
apparent at once. 

Charlotte was quite sure something was coming, and was therefore 
not deceived by her visitor's next words. 

" I thought I saw Mr. Bradford come in here just before me," she 
said. " Is he stopping here ?" 

" Oh, no ; he has not been here for many months." 

"Not since that night?" 

" No," returned Charlotte, who could not but wonder why she 
should be in ignorance of Bradford's whereabouts, and if he were, 
after all, not so guilty in his relations to her as it had at first appeared. 
During the ensuing moment of silence she saw Thyra enter the front 
door and pass rapidly up the hall without looking in, and her thoughts 



Social Logic 179 

turned with some amusement to wonder what her friend would think 
when she found Mrs. Featherstone's card on the bureau. 

" I heard he had gone down to Cuba," her visitor continued. " Is 
it true?" 

" I don't know ; I have heard nothing of him/' 

The round eyes opened wider. "Why I thought I always im- 
agined that you two were such good friends; that that in fact, 
that he was in love with you." 

" Oh, no, Mr. Bradford was more my friend's friend than mine. 
I saw very little of him." 

"Your friend?" 

"Thyra Fenton and I are living here together. She knew him 
much better than I, but she too is quite ignorant of his whereabouts 
now." 

Mrs. Featherstone rose; her face was clouded again and revealed 
a touch of fretfulness. " He is evidently not in New York," she said, 
and added thoughtfully, "he is a strange mortal. Well, good-by for 
the present. Be sure you come to see me next Thursday ; Mr. Feather- 
stone will be out of town, and I shall have my sister there, so you can 
make your final arrangements." 

As Charlotte was expressing her thanks Thyra appeared at the 
door, as though by accident, gave a little start as if from surprise, then 
entered the room rapidly, trying nervously to force on one of her 
gloves. " I only came to tell you I must go out for a moment, Charlotte 
dear," she said in a breathy whisper. " I shall return for luncheon." 

The last words were accompanied by a genial smile directed towards 
Mrs. Featherstone, who was taking her in with a keen glance that 
lost none of the details of her lovely appearance. 

" This is my friend, Miss Fenton, Mrs. Featherstone," said Char- 
lotte, wishing to humor the desire she knew had actuated Thyra's 
sudden advent. 

The millionaire's wife merely bowed and repeated the name ; then, 
extending her hand to Charlotte, said, "Well, Thursday then; 
good-by." 

When they heard the bang of her carriage door Thyra, who, for- 
getting her late haste to go out, had sunk into a chair and was drawing 
off the glove she had appeared so anxious to get on. remarked with a 
curl of the lip, " She is a priggy sort of doll, isn't she ? I hate a 
woman to put on such airs just because she has money." 

" I don't find her priggy," returned Charlotte. " She possesses 
the mightiest sceptre of the times, and can afford to be independent." 

Thyra sighed. "What a difference it makes!" she murmured. 
" She has the ease and self-confidence of a princess of the blood ; but 
put her back in poverty, and she wouldn't dare to enter this room 



180 Social Logic 

with her head up. Wealth certainly gives a sense of security and ease 
that good-breeding lacks in run-down shoes and shabby clothes. 
People can say what they want, no woman can hold her head up long 
when she knows that even the good points nature has given her are 
disguised in ugly and ill-fitting clothes, and she is an object either 
of pity or contempt. No woman should be poor; it means in the end 
either a loss of sex or morals." 

Charlotte looked at her in astonishment; this was free speaking 
for Thyra. 

The latter's face was flushed with anger. " Oh, well, it makes 
me furious/' she exclaimed, as though in reply, "to think that little 
doll, with her narrow brain and pussy face, and the stamp of plebeian 
birth all over her, should be a social leader and look down on me, just 
because her husband has been able to rob people sufficiently to amass 
a fortune!" 

"Oh Thyra!" 

"Well, it's true! Papa told me long ago all about it. What did 
she want with you?" 

Charlotte explained in detail, whereupon Thyra's lip curled again. 
" Isn't it bitter to have her looking upon you as a menial ?" she said 
pityingly. 

" I don't think she looks upon me as that." 

" Do you mean you are never going to try Mr. Greenley again ? 
He may give you more orders, and it would be better than travelling 
about with that woman's old-maid sister." 

" I shall never ask him again. I am tired of designing." 

Thyra became thoughtful; her companion noticed the little, cal- 
culating gleam in her eyes that so often puzzled her. " Well, perhaps 
you are right," she said, rising, "you might meet someone eligible 
over there. Come, let's go in to luncheon." 

"You are not going out then?" 

"What?" she started in surprise at Charlotte, then remembering 
her face relaxed. " Oh, no ; it is too late now. I shall have to 
leave it until to-morrow." 

IX. 

THE voyage to Havre might have been a pleasant enough experience 
for Charlotte had not Mrs. Featherstone's sister very quickly revealed 
herself in a new light from the rather silent, submissive individual 
she had first found her. Miss Bailey, aged forty-two, was not an 
attractive specimen of womankind; large of stature and bone, with 
wide, square shoulders and feet and hands to match, in male attire 
she might easily have passed for a night watchman out of a place. 
Her face had an expression as though it had been paralyzed while con- 
torted in pain; her flat-chested form appeared to have grown to its 



Social Logic 181 

unusual size before the sex had been quite decided upon; her voice 
deep; her upper lip shadowed by a distinctly masculine down; her 
eyes, larger than her sister's and of a greenish blue, were generally 
half concealed beneath heavy and inflamed lids. 

Fortunately, she dressed exclusively in black, and thus maintained 
a certain air of respectability. 

In spite, however, of the woman's unprepossessing appearance, Char- 
lotte had, up to the moment of this first revelation, found her very good 
company. Added to a peculiarly unconscious wit and childlike geniality, 
she was given to wistfully philosophic moods that often won the interest 
and affection of persons once strongly prejudiced against her. 

During the voyage Charlotte had made the acquaintance of a young 
Englishman who absorbed most of her time, and having, much to her 
surprise, found herself to be a. good sailor, had passed the major part 
of this particularly stormy afternoon pacing the deck with him, Miss 
Bailey having said she would sleep and desired not to be disturbed. 
When the first gong sounded for dinner Charlotte descended to the 
state-room to dress, and as no response came to her knock she entered. 

The sight that met her eyes was so appalling she was about to 
run from the room, when she became aware of a strong odor of whiskey, 
and decided it was best not to attract attention. 

Miss Bailey was lying on the floor, a pair of substantial, white- 
stockinged legs too boldly exposed; her head, supported against the 
sofa, hanging back weakly; her reddened eyes fixed on the ceiling, and 
her lips babbling unintelligently in the hoarse tone of a delirious youth. 
To two red straps hanging from the upper berth she was clinging 
with a frenzied grasp, as though to help herself against the rough- 
ness of the storm. As the door closed she turned an awful, contorted 
face towards Charlotte, who at once perceived that she had received a 
severe cut on one cheek. 

" Stop him !" she groaned pathetically. " For God's sake, head him 
off, can't you? God in Heaven! haven't I been beaten about by the 
beast long enough. Say! oh! haven't I? Do something, you fool. 
Can't you see oh!" As the ship lurched pitilessly, the muscular 
hands clung more desperately to the red straps. " I'm going now ! 
I'm going!" she groaned. "The devil's in him as he was in the 
swine ! God, do help me !" Her eyes closed, her head fell forward as 
she repeated more softly, "I'm going now; I'm going." 

For nearly an hour Charlotte worked over her, trying to convince 
her that she was not behind a runaway horse, but having had no 
experience in such matters her efforts were futile. At last she tried 
to humor the illusion. 

" If you don't let me get you up, you will be kicked about this way 
forever ?" she said. 



182 Social Logic 

" And what of it ?" demanded the woman gruffly. " Why shouldn't 
I ? Who's got a better right ?" 

" But you don't want to be hurt, do you ?" 

"It's me, ain't it? Who's got a right to interfere? You and 
my sister always think you know .everything, but I've got a head of my 
own ; that's one thing God did give me ! Whoa ! you bad devil ! I'll 

manage you ! I'll " Again the ship lurched, throwing her heavily 

on one side. " Oh ! oh ! can't somebody do something ?" 

After Charlotte, seizing her opportunity, had taken the straps from 
her and succeeded in getting her to lie down respectably in the lower 
berth, she arranged her dishevelled hair and bathed the poor, scarred 
face ; for in spite of the woman's revolting appearance in these states 
which Charlotte soon found were of periodical occurrence and the 
probable reason why Mrs. Peatherstone wished to keep her in another 
part of the world no one could deny her compassion. Even in the 
delirium of drunkenness she revealed a nai've simplicity that was 
irresistible; and the witty, kind-hearted honesty of her sober moments 
had warmed the girl's heart towards her. 

On one occasion, when she was recovering from one of these exciting 
intervals, she looked up sadly at Charlotte, who was bathing her brow 
with cologne, and said pathetically, " I wonder what makes me have 
these hard times?" 

"Because you take that vile whiskey/' returned Charlotte. "You 
are ruining your life with it." 

Miss Bailey scratched her nose indifferently. "Yes, it is the 
whiskey," she said pensively but without regret. " But then the whiskey 
is better than my life you must see that! It makes me feel. I'm 
numb all the rest of the time, not knowing why I eat and drink, or why 
I wake every morning like other people who have something to live 
for. Do you know that taking the wings from a bird, pulling the 
feathers out, doesn't stop its desire to fly; the Almighty doesn't seem 
to have considered that when He made me a woman without any one of 
a woman's charms ! Even I have the feelings of a woman, the longings 
and sentiment, but I know they can never come, so I just drink and 
forget." Her poor, ugly face was drawn into lines of unspeakable sad- 
ness for a moment, her eyes moved wistfully from one object to another ; 
then, like a flash, a gleam of amusement danced in them. "But I 
am sister-in-law to Eobert Featherstone, millionaire ! That's some con- 
solation, ain't it? My sister is obliged to supply me with the best of 
spirits and send me abroad, so I spin along merrily towards the end 
she's aiming for. Ha!" She nodded her head several times, and 
passed her hand over her chin in a way she had. 

"If you could only get something to do," mentioned Charlotte, 
" something to interest " 



Social Logic 183 

Miss Bailey turned quickly. " What for ?" she demanded. " Why 
should I plod for the mere sake of plodding, and perhaps drag my days 
out longer? No, no, my child! People take life far too seriously. 
We listen to handsome theories and try to believe they're truth; we 
try to cram our deformities into a glove worn by some sainted creature 
gone before; but the thing doesn't fit and we make guys of ourselves. 
For those who have ambitions it's all very well; let them plod and 
struggle, they find some pleasure in it, perhaps; but when it comes 
to working just to live, no I'm out of it !" 

" But why can't you have ambitions ? There is plenty of time yet." 

" Plenty of time ! Oh, yes ; I could go meekly about posing as a 
saint with the face and form of a gnome, preaching what I don't 
believe to the poor, and having a paragraph in the papers when I die, 
which most sincere people would read with relief to know the world 
had been relieved of one more slobbery old woman! But I'm not 
charitable in any particular ; and I can't ape it, as most people do, just 
because I have no other vocation! Besides, who can feel real charity 
who has never known joy? What argument could I use? It would 
be the drowning of my own misery in the misery of others. Happiness 
belongs to the lovely; there never was an ugly woman who was really 
happy ; they may flatter themselves that they are by becoming religious 
fanatics, but I, for one, don't believe in forcing on the Lord what the 
world won't look at! I used to dream of growing up pretty!" She 
laughed a little quite merrily, and pressed her large nose between two 
fingers. " I remember at eighteen padding myself out with stockings 
to get a more feminine outline, and pulling the hairs out of my upper 
lip until tears ran down in floods! I screwed myself in, curled my 
hair, and even daubed my face ; but it was like a farmer trying to make 
a lady of himself too much of me had run into the wrong mould ! I 
was unhappy yes, terribly. Then suddenly I realized how little it 
would matter in a hundred years; I realized that I was suffering for 
pygmy notions; because a miserable set of creatures, less numerous 
than the ants, less wise than the bees, shorter-lived than many beasts of 
the fields, said certain things are beautiful and certain not, I was 
breaking my heart! I realized how short a time it would last, and 
took something to make the days go merrily ! Wasn't I right ? Say ! 
wasn't I? Certainly! It's better than what some women resort to 
who are denied their birthright ! I'm doing no one any harm no 
one!" 

In spite of these unelevating sentiments there was a yielding appeal 
in her manner that touched Charlotte's sympathy. Often her talks 
were flavored with a reckless brilliancy peculiar to natures that cannot 
age. Philosophy a philosophy culled in lonely hours from the very 
buoyancy of her heart had prevented bitterness, and gave to the face, 



184 Social Logic 

unpleasing as it was, an indefinable sweetness of expression, like the 
eyes of a laughing child looking from a goblin's mask. 

"It isn't that Fm sad/' she said once, when they were settled in 
Nice. " If I could become more downright miserable and see the world 
through dark glasses, I might be able to curdle comfortably, as most old 
maids do, and settle down in my own sourness ; but everything pleases 
me ! If I were made differently, didn't have this great carcass to drag 
about, I could be out there now playing tennis with the best of them. 
I'd like to I'd like to be a ballet dancer! that's what I'd like." 

It was such bits of unstudied originality that encouraged Charlotte 
to continue on with her, and to forgive Mrs. Featherstone for what she 
had first considered selfish carelessness in sending her abroad with a 
woman addicted to such a vice. As it was, the weeks passed pleasantly 
enough on the whole; Charlotte rested and enjoyed the change of 
scene, while perfecting herself in the language d'Orlet had taught her 
to love. 

But gradually Miss Bailey's attacks became more frequent as well 
as more serious. The climax was reached when Charlotte was awakened 
one March night by someone knocking violently on her door and crying 
that smoke was issuing from Miss Bailey's room. She rushed through 
the communicating door, and found the spinster in a drunken sleep on 
the bed, with a chair drawn close to it whereon were a candle and an 
empty flask. The candle had ignited a heavy woollen blanket, which 
had evidently burned slowly for some time, filling the room with smoke, 
but was now in flames scarcely a foot from the woman's body. 

This Charlotte dragged off and extinguished; then awakened Miss 
Bailey and informed her of what had happened. 

" Goodness gracious !" she exclaimed heavily, " I thought I was 
feeling warm !" and immediately fell off to sleep again. 

The next day at the pension table d'hote when someone referred 
to the occurrence she said naively, blinking her inflamed lids : " That's 
what a person gets for trying to read the Bible when she's dead sleepy. 
I always like to read a passage or two before I put the light out. I 
just dozed off. But then I'm not one to get easily frightened; if 
there were a fire, I'd not lose my head one bit. I've got my own 
theory, and I know I'd escape all right, even if there were no way but 
the window !" 

" How ?" asked someone. " You might be generous, and give us 
the tip." 

Suppressed amusement, the amusement Miss Bailey invariably 
aroused in her fellow-boarders, was written upon every face, and, as 
usual, everyone at the long, narrow table was eagerly awaiting her 
next words. 

" Well, I'd jump, of course," said Miss Bailey with a complacency 



Social Logic 185 

wholly devoid of self -consciousness ; " anyone'd do that ! But instead 
of stopping when my feet touched the ground, I'd keep on leaping, first 
high as I could, then by degrees lower and lower, until I came to a 
stand-still comfortabty, without any shock." 

This was too much for the gravity of anyone. An explosive burst of 
laughter greeted the words as each individual pictured Miss Bailey's 
large and ungainly form, her hair up in papers, her clothes flung on 
any fashion, " leaping," at graduating heights, down the street ! 

Fortunately, Mrs. Featherstone with her married sister arrived in 
Nice about this time, and the married sister, being impecunious, was 
packed off to join Miss Bailey and Charlotte. 

The latter took advantage of this opportunity to resign her post, 
and, reckless of the consequences, accompanied to Paris two very 
respectable old ladies from Philadelphia whom she had met at the 
pension. 

For long Paris had been, to her, the capital of the world. Her idle 
fancies fluttered about it as moths about a lamp. She did not expect 
to see d'Orlet again ; flic meant to make no effort to see him. Yet it 
would be revivifying to breathe the same air, to see the scenes he was 
accustomed to look upon, to walk in the historic corridors of his capital ! 

X. 

UNDER the guidance of her two elderly friends she took a room in 
a superior pension on the Eue de Bassano and accompanied the spin- 
sters upon the usual sight-seeing expeditions. This, however, did not 
prove entirely satisfactory; the old ladies were easily tired, and were 
not appealed to by the same things that particularly pleased Charlotte. 
Consequently the acquaintance of a Mr. Cook, who sat vis-a-vis to her 
at table and had known her father in boyhood, proved both agreeable 
and welcome. In a little time he took her about in quite a fatherly 
way, and even gave her a glimpse of the more interesting lanes of the 
beautiful capital. In all their little excursions to les petits cafes, the 
theatres, studios, and opera, there lived in her heart an acknowledged 
hope of seeing d'Orlet; but nowhere did she hear him even mentioned, 
and in time began to doubt that he was in Paris. 

One evening she and a young English woman who had attached 
herself to them at the pension were sitting with Cook in the Casino, 
ostensibly to enjoy a very amusing vaudeville, but in reality watching 
certain marvellously gowned women strolling like peacocks upon and 
down the carpeted passage. One in particular was extremely striking; 
her costume and entire appearance seemed above reproach. Charlotte, 
who was watching her with interest, saw her approach, with charmingly 
deliberated grace, a young man who was leaning against one of the 
pillars and apparently absorbed in the performance. She almost uttered 



186 Social Logic 

a cry as she recognized the handsome, pale face that turned to reply 
to her with an expression of contemptuous curiosity. It was Whortley 
Bradford, looking considerably older, and with a slightly cynical ex- 
pression about the mouth. He made some reply to the woman, quite 
quietly and without changing his position, that made her turn away 
with a slight, impatient shrug. 

Charlotte quickly sent Mr. Cook to bring him to her, for in spite 
of almost positive proof that he was in some nasty way mixed up with 
the loss of Mrs. Featherstone's diamonds, she could not overcome her 
liking for him, nor at this moment resist the temptation of having a 
talk with him. He strode towards her quickly. " Well, this is a sur- 
prise !" he exclaimed with genuine pleasure. " Who would ever have 
expected to find you here?" 

"Is it not?" returned Charlotte, feeling her spirits rise as she 
looked into his friendly face and felt the warm clasp of his hand. " And 
you ! I heard you had gone to Cuba." 

" Oh, there are many foolish tales abroad about me ; I shouldn't be 
surprised to hear it rumored I'd gone to South Africa to incite a new 
uprising among the Boers ! But what are you doing in Paris ?" 

" Oh, seeing what I can see, hearing what I can hear, and being 
generally educated. A friendly face is a boon I had begun to despair 
of. But what are you doing here ?" 

" Many things. I've turned over a new leaf, and put my hand to 
the plough in real earnest." 

"What! tilling French soil, when there are the promising plains 
of America, the land of your birth?" 

" Oh, not tilling, merely playing farmhand to break myself in while 
earning enough to return to the best of countries." 

"Bravo! that refreshes me. Oh, you don't know how nice it is 
to meet with a normal and cultured man again. The Continent seems 
overrun with half-natures who cannot be endured at home." 

Mr. Cook with praisworthy tact had turned his attention to the 
young English woman, thus enabling Charlotte and Bradford to talk 
freely and unheeded. Although the latter seemed unwilling to go 
into the particulars of his own situation and the conditions that kept 
him in the French capital, he appeared to be in comfortable circum- 
stances and talked quite light-heartedly and cleverly. Never had she 
seen him in such good health nor so in command of himself. As he 
accompanied her back to the pension, she found a delight in listening 
to his clever and fresh views of things, after the pedantic and long- 
drawn-out discussions to which Cook had subjected her. 

Before reaching their destination he made her heart stand still by 
remarking casually : " I saw someone who will interest you the other 
day your friend d'Orlet. He appeared at the races manning a smart 



Social Logic 187 

coach and four, with a party of about twelve, and not a pretty woman 
among them ! The French women take the palm for plainness ; never 
have I seen such deranged noses \" 

Charlotte felt that he was purposely speaking indifferently, for he 
knew pretty well what her relations had been with the Count, but she 
could not bring herself to utter the simplest word. He was, then, in 
Paris ! Her breath was caught ; every idea fled. 

Bradford promised to come the next evening and take her to the 
theatre, and she parted with him without asking one of the questions 
that came in a flood to her lips. 

With the mention of d'Orlet's name the old feeling seemed to take 
new life in her heart. The knowledge that he was really in the city 
created a reckless impatience to see him, just to look upon him once 
more, even from a distance. She did not hope to be able to speak 
to him, nor did she wish to reveal herself to him; the step she had 
taken was final ; it was righteous ; she tried not to regret it. 

Yet the next afternoon she dressed with particular care, and 
although she wore her usual plain blue walking-suit, her improved 
health had brought back the fresh color to her face, and a loveliness 
that needed no other adornment. 

The day was bright with sunshine, and ringing with the innumer- 
able little bells of cabs and smart equipages a characteristic Parisian 
spring day, teeming with merry life. 

As she walked towards the Champs Elysees she could see the endless 
sea of smart traps, and could hear the throbbing rush of automobiles as 
they sped by like flashes of red, white, or yellow. There was a fragrance 
of violets on the air, violets and young leaves of spring, that made her 
heart yearn for something undefined, and awoke a compassion for her- 
self in remembering what she had lost. 

As she passed before the porte cochere of the Champs Elysees hotel 
a handsome landau approached, drawn by two showy horses. While 
pausing for it to pass, her eyes naturally sought the occupants, but 
those she met looking in astonishment upon her made her utter a sup- 
pressed cry. 

Thyra, robed in white broadcloth, half concealed in a mass of snowy 
ostrich feathers, reclined against the luxuriant cushions, her fair face 
relieved by an exquisite hat of white chiffon trimmed with narrow 
strips of ermine and crushed roses. 

She had started forward on beholding Charlotte, but now blushed 
crimson and turned to her companion. The vehicle passed so quickly 
under the arch that Charlotte was unable to see who was with her, but 
from the rear she beheld a silk hat that stood scarcely higher than 
Thyra's shoulder. All excitement and interest, she crossed before the 
champing horses to greet her friend, from whom she had not heard for 
several months. 



188 Social Logic 

Then she stood appalled. Descending from the carriage with slow 
and halting movement she beheld the bowed form of Mr. Greenley. His 
yellow face was turned towards her, his awful mouth smiling scoffingly. 
One gloved hand he held out to assist Thyra, who descended like a queen 
the princess and the gnome. 

Her upper lip was drawn down in a way Charlotte was familiar 
with in the past when her friend wished to conceal something or sought 
to oppose criticism. Her greeting was accompanied by a nervous little 
laugh. "Why, Charlotte, what are you doing here? How strange!" 
She held out her hand stiffly, and Charlotte mechanically took it, 
although she felt her head reeling and her heart sick with horror. 

" Come in, won't you ?" said Thyra, " come in and have tea with us ; 
it will be nice to to talk over things." 

Charlotte had grown very pale ; she stared. " Do you mean do 
you mean that you are married to him?" she gasped. 

Thyra withdrew her hand, and turned as though to go in. " Cer- 
tainly; what do you think?" she said coldly. 

Charlotte seized her wrist; a storm of memories crowded upon her, 
a mocking echo of moral reasoning, of fears and doubts and longings. 

" Is this what you call morality ?" she cried under her breath. 
" My God, Thyra, your youth, your beauty, to that I Oh, no ! no ! 
Good-by ; I could never face it ! I could never countenance it !" 

She turned without stopping to look again at the old man whose 
face had already seemed to congeal her blood with a recollection of the 
most hideous scene in her life, her own words ringing in her ears, her 
confused thoughts filling the world. First a fierce tempest of disgust 
and revolt; then a memory of d'Orlet of his great love, and hers for 
him. Compared to Thyra's hideous crime against nature how beautiful 
and righteous it seemed, in spite of the conventional restrictions that 
had once debarred them from enjoying it ! 

Some of Thyra's philosophy returned to her. Morality then means 
the world's approbation. Virtue is not a matter of the heart and refine- 
ment of feeling, but merely a slavish obedience to social law, even 
though one must resort to so base and sordid a deed as this of Thyra's 
in order to be recognized in a lawful community ! 

In her heart the roar of the avenue thundered like a rush of war 
chariots. War was in everything, from the beat of her quickened pulse 
to the clatter of hoofs on the wooden pavement and the cry of the paper 
man, "La Patrie!" 

Her pulse seemed to beat in her ears like the panting of an engine ; 
it grew stronger until she could hear nothing else ; then a large white 
automobile rushed past and drew up at the curb just beyond. 

A man was operating it; beside him sat a woman, and behind the 
chauffeur. The driver, as though having the thought upon his mind, 



Social Logic 189 

no sooner brought the machine to a stand-still than he turned and 
looked straight at Charlotte. 

As her eyes met his the sensation was excruciating. Her breath 
caught; an impulse came to fly to him. Instead, she would move on 
quite stiffly. 

D'Orlet appeared astonished. He stared an instant, sprang out of 
the vehicle, took a step towards her ; then, with a change of expression, 
raised his hat, and turned his attention to the automobile, at which his 
chauffeur was already tinkering. 

Charlotte had turned quickly hot and cold; her knees refused to 
bend; she walked on stiffly with head up, looking straight in advance. 

The scene, before so full of life and joy, how seemed removed into 
a vague perspective. The groups of happy children, the gayly ribboned 
bonnets, the violet stands, airy costumes, and shining tall hats, all be- 
came like a distant panorama veiled by the fevered atmosphere of her 
own mind. Through this the face of a fair, beautifully gowned woman 
gradually became distinct: a face of the most piquant French type, 
bright with youth and coquettish laughter, eyes that seemed to see and 
appreciate everything. Was she his wife? No, that was beyond ques- 
tion. Then who? He had bowed, raised his hat, as he might to any 
stranger, and then 

Again the fierce panting sounded behind her, racking her heart. The 
white automobile shot past once more; but d'Orlet heeded only his 
wheel now and the maze of vehicles ahead. The fair head beside him 
glistened in the sunlight and served as a beacon by which Charlotte 
followed their swift flight through the moving throng as far as the 
Place de la Concorde. 

Then her steps lagged. What was there to do ? He could forget so 
soon : why should she suffer ? It would be better to let him go to 
forget everything! But while she fretted her heart planned war for 
its rights. She would write to him; she would let him know that it 
was all a mistake, that she had risked her life's happiness through 
childish folly, but now she was matured, she understood the incom- 
parable value of the force that had drawn them together, the affinity 
that could come only once in a lifetime! For this everything should 
be sacrificed and all condoned; it was the zenith of life, the centre 
of moral gravity, the one and only 

" You look as though you were about to challenge the united armies 
of Europe," said a voice at her right, and she looked for an instant into 
the grave, ivory-hued face before recognizing Bradford, who stood with 
head uncovered smiling down at her. 

" I am preparing to challenge a mightier array than that," she 
returned in a tone that indicated a willingness that he might accom- 
pany her. 



190 Social Logic 

" May I not be confided in ? You hold many a secret of mine." 

"Oh, the wrong of law in general, I think! Something awfully 
improper like that, though I can't define it at the moment." 

" Has the law been offending you ? Tell me your grievances ; I 
shall be your advocate." 

" Oh, I want nothing to do with advocates. I don't believe in advice 
any more; the man or woman who cannot decide for himself might 
as well give up at once, for he must surely be crushed in the end 
beneath nature's most implacable law, the survival of the fittest." 

He looked at her with a gleam of compassionate interest. "You 
are right," he said. " I wonder if you came by that conviction as hardly 
as I came by it. Until the truth of it was beaten into me, I never 
advanced an inch in thought or action; now I feel that the world is 
mine ! And it is surely, because I have allowed my own spine to support 
me, I have mustered my own forces, and not enfeebled them by leaning 
on another." 

Charlotte sighed. " Do you mean to say that men suffer from that 
too ? I always imagined your sex was spared struggles of that sort." 

" We should be ; but some of us have been unduly pampered in our 
youth ; the grit at the bottom wasn't stirred." 

" And yours is now ?" 

"I hope so; I've been shaken up enough. Very few men have 
gone through a harder time than I had here in Paris. I've been days 
when I didn't know where Td get anything to eat ; I have put up at 
houses where my father's butler would have been ashamed to sleep 
oh, and a lot of other nastiness. But what of it ? I'm standing now, 
and on my own feet." 

" What are you doing ?" 

"Writing. Two years ago I began by newspaper work, and now 
I am joint editor of the International, published here and in London. 
Of course, my knowledge of the law of several countries the hobby 
I pursued after passing the bar at home made me particularly fitted 
for the place, and it was sheer luck that there was no other man quite 
available at hand. Fortune has been serving me pretty well this year. 
I suppose you know I've been appointed second secretary of the em- 
bassy? besides the welcome windfall from my father's brother, who 
died in Africa and made me his heir?" 

" No, I have heard nothing lately, but I'm awfully glad." 

Her tired tone made him regard her again more critically. " I say, 
you look awfully white," he said. " Are you tired ? Let's take a hack 
and go some place where we can sit down." He hailed a passing cab, 
and while helping her in asked, " Where shall it be ? the Elysees ?" 

Charlotte flashed towards him a glance of horror. " Oh, no ; not 
there!" she exclaimed, "any place but there !" 



Social Logic 191 

"The Continental then," he said, and repeating it to the driver 
sprang in after her. " Why not the Elysees ?" he asked. " Have you a 
grudge against it ?" 

" No, but" she looked at him thoughtfully " have you heard 
anything about Thyra?" she asked, half fearing to touch upon the 
subject. 

Bradford flushed darkly. "Oh, yes, I've heard," he said with an 
accent of disgust. " That was enough to make any man renounce your 
sex forever. By God ! I never thought a woman could stoop that 
low. There's no use trying to hide my feelings on the subject or to 
play the chivalrous; I despise her for it, and if I had not already 
awakened to the fact that my love for her was only the illusion of an 
overtaxed mind, a mind on the verge of delirium from shocks a man 
could hardly bear up under, I never could bring myself, after I heard 
this, to think of any woman with respect. But my experience has 
opened my eyes to two facts : there are as distinct species of women 
as there are of birds; some are mere females, others mere dolls, and 
others women proper the counterpart of man in the better sense." 
Charlotte could not restrain a smile, although she realized the serious- 
ness of his mood ; but he quite gravely continued : " There are also ner- 
vous disorders that are often termed love. A man or a woman gets run 
down, sees everything dark, hopes for nothing, aims for nothing; then 
a person of the opposite sex approaches, sympathizes, plays on all the 
overtaxed nerves with a soothing influence, which is studied and de- 
liberate, but the man quaffs it blindly, as a sufferer drinks brandy to 
ease pain without questioning whether it be injurious or not. We do 
not examine the character of the one obtaining this power over us, 
because we are ill, and our illness controls us; we seek merely to ease 
the inward gnawing with as little pain or effort as possible. Normal 
love the love of a mentally and physically sound person is not half 
so blind as poets would have us believe. Indeed, at such a time I think 
the mind is actually critical. Characteristics that the world considers 
faults in the one we love may be particularly dear to us, they are nicks 
that correspond to the nicks in our own nature; but the individual is 
dissected again and again by the unerring and ever busy blade of our 
passion. Every quickened element in us pries and probes to measure 
itself with the same element in the other; it is the natural mating of 
things of the many units in the one unit. This is real love ; but the 
other the other is the cause of nine-tenths of the world's misery; it 
is the creator of morbid generations, the destroyer of correct deductions, 
the worst menace to humanity. For instance, take my own case again : 
do you think if you had come, Charlotte, and shown one-fifth of the 
sympathetic interest Thyra affected, that my nature, sore from the rack 
of months of strain and sorrow, would not have bowed down before 



192 Social Logic 

you even more abjectly than it did before her ? But you were absorbed 
in another direction, and you could not affect an interest, even if you 
had not been absorbed." He looked at her an instant thoughtfully be- 
fore he added, speaking partly to himself, "Thank God, I cannot 
connect you with that time except as a memory, like a breath of fragrant 
air in a hospital room. Charlotte, I cannot explain how your presence 
used to affect me then ; although every thought was absorbed by Thyra, 
your coming brought a sort of relief to the over-tension of my nerves, 
to the morbid fever that devoured me." 

Charlotte looked away nervously. " Do you know she is here ?" she 
asked. 

"Who?" 

" Thyra. They are stopping at the Elysees." 

" What !" He stared ; then threw his head back and laughed ex- 
plosively. " And I wanted to go there ! What a situation God ! 
When did you hear it ?" 

" I saw her just before I met you. It nearly killed me." 

" You mean you didn't know ?" 

" No, I had heard nothing; I did not know that she even saw him. 
Do you know him ?" 

" I have met him, yes ; I don't think anyone ever knew him. He 
has the reputation of being the closest man in America." 

"Well, he appears to have flung his exchequer wide now. Thyra 
is robed like a princess, lolling in a splendid voiture, and apparently 
enjoying herself hugely." 

"And all with the countenance of society!" said Bradford with a 
scornful laugh. " She is not afraid of being criticised ; she has come 
by her millions legitimately ! By Heaven ! I honor the lowest woman 
here in Paris more than I do her ! They take a certain risk, but, bah ! 
I can't speak of it ! This is what she calls morality being faithful to 
the genteel customs of her blood ! She has sold herself morally and 
physically, and the deed has not even the one redeeming feature of 
courage !" 

His words, so deeply feeling and sincere, comforted Charlotte, they 
struck her right chord and awoke an echo; yet so deeply had she 
felt the gross wrong done that she became embarrassed to think Brad- 
ford knew of it. 

"Perhaps I have spoken too plainly," he said as they drew up at 
the Continental. " Please forgive me, and forget what I have said." 

While they awaited tea to be served them in the palm-room Char- 
lotte looked in a directory for d'Orlet's address, and finding it to be the 
same he had given her, decided she would write him a note and dispatch 
it in the morning by a messenger, who should be told to give it only 
into the Count's own hands. 



Social Logic 193 

The note was short, and told little save that, having seen him that 
day, the impulse had come to send him a line, as she expected to be 
a week or so longer in Paris and would be glad to see him. 

When four days passed without bringing any reply her state of 
mind became intolerable. 

Silence in such a case is far more trying than a brusque rebuff. She 
knew not what to expect, and could not under such conditions reconcile 
herself to accept the situation as final. 

But how reach him again ? Pride forbade writing again, and yet it 
was this very pride, piqued and wounded as it was, that was outgrowing 
her very love and goading her to action. 

She determined that he should see her again at her best, and, in 
spite of the lowness of her funds, repaired to Madame Doulus's and 
ordered a costume fit for a duchess. The French woman, with the eye 
of a true artist, was willing to make concessions in price for a form 
that could show her work off to such advantage, and Charlotte was 
thenceforth able to go about with Bradford suitably garbed to places 
where the Paris world of fashion congregated, and she certainly was a 
being any man might be proud to be seen with a fact Bradford did 
not fail to appreciate. 

"I am the envied of all observers," he remarked one afternoon as 
they were returning from the races in an open cab. " There was not 
a woman there not one in France who can hold a candle to you, 
Charlotte mia." 

Charlotte was looking dreamily into the pale green of the Bois, 
through which they were driving. 

" Don't call me that !" she said with a slight shudder, recalling the 
last time d'Orlet had so addressed Iicr. 

" Do you know I had a very unworthy thought as I saw you 
sitting there in that crowd, like a lily among cornstalks?" pursued 
Bradford, not heeding her. " I wished that Thyra could have been 
sitting near; I should have liked to see the contrast to have revelled 
in it !" 

" At my expense ? Thank you !" 

"Yes; of course, at your expense! Oh, don't be guilty, dear, of 
the weakness of other women, it doesn't become you." 

Charlotte sat silent an instant; a certain tender undertone in the 
words startled her with emotion. She looked at him curiously under 
her long, curled lashes. " It seems to me that you are adopting a very 
familiar mode of addressing me," she said. " May T ask who gave you 
permission to ' dear' me ?" 

The clear-cut, manly face, with its splendid eyes bent upon her, 
stood out distinctly against the faint afternoon glow; every feature 

VOL. LXXIV. 7 



194 Social Logic 

of it seemed alive with a force lying below. This force she felt enter 
her own eyes, and it obliged her to look away. 

" You have never given me permission, I know/' he said softly ; 
" you hold me far away from you. We spend our days together ; you 

intoxicate me with those eyes, and then ask me Charlotte, what 

is it in your eyes that seems to turn a man's blood to wine? Look at 
me." He leaned forward, looking up into her passive face, and the 
curled lashes revealed only a narrow gleam of the light he sought. 

"Don't be foolish," she returned; "to use your own words, it 
doesn't become you." 

He sat back and folded his arms, looking straight ahead. " You 
are not the sort of woman who can make a man foolish," he said. " I 
have passed through that ignoble period, and, thank God ! a man with 
any metal in him can only experience it once. Every man must be 
tricked by a woman once, I suppose, in order to gauge his own strength 
and weakness but the fortunate one is he who can weather this part 
of his education without crippling his life. It is my opinion that no 
woman who will deliberately make a fool of a man should be made his 
wife ; he would do far better to cut his throat." 

They drove along in silence for a little while, bells jingling on every 
side; beautiful, snorting horses; gayly apparelled women, flowers, 
perfume, the soft ambrosia of spring, and Napoleon's triumphal arch 
towering in dignified grace and exquisite coloring at the park entrance. 

Charlotte glanced at her companion. In the strong outline of his 
profile, the thoughtful brow and determined chin, were expressed 
something of the same dignity and force of this structure ; to look at 
it afforded her refreshing pleasure, as did this tribute of France to her 
great General. Of late she had found a distinct satisfaction in his 
society, a satisfaction she had accepted unquestioningly, sparing it no 
thought from the anxious workings and plannings of her mind. She 
had become accustomed to feel his broad shoulder near her; it was 
restful and comforting, as a matter of course; she never considered 
the possibility of losing it. Now as she looked at him there was a cer- 
tain small hollow in the cheek, a curve of the fine, dark brow whose very 
familiarity caused her an indescribable pang. His very silence, their 
nearness to each other, increased this; she had a momentary impulse 
to draw closer to him. 

" I want to tell you something, Charlotte," he said gravely at this 
moment. "Would you mind if we turn back for a little? I should 
like to tell you this night." 

The words made her heart stand still for an instant. 

" Yes, you may turn," she said, " but we must get back in time 
for me to dress. Eemember, this is the night you are to be take me 
to the opera." 



Social Logic 195 

" I know ; I have not forgotten. We shall only go a little way." 

The western sky they now faced spread in a pale splendor of prim- 
rose above the lacy tree-tops of the Bois de Boulogne, and far as the eye 
could reach up that fair, straight avenue to Versailles stretched a 
crowded line of vehicles gleaming in the haze-softened distance like a 
flock of fireflies with the reflection of the glory above. 

" I have another piece of news to tell you," began Bradford quietly ; 
" Mrs. Featherstone is in Paris." 

Charlotte glanced at him critically. " How do you know ?" 

" I saw her mentioned as one of the arrivals at the Camps Elysees 
this morning. She will probably be looking you up before long." 

Charlotte's face clouded. " Yes, of course. I wish she would not." 

" But she will, and I want to ask you not to let her know that I am 
here." 

" And if she asks me if I have seen you ?" asked Charlotte, feeling 
a sudden dread of what his request seemed to suggest. 

" Oh, if it comes to that, of course I would not have you perjure 
yourself; the matter is not so serious as that. And now I shall tell 
you: Mrs. Featherstone imagines that I am, to an extent, at her 
mercy; she believes that she is at this moment serving me; in other 
words, she flatters herself that she is shielding me from arrest." 

" Arrest !" 

Bradford's face had grown whiter, the veins stood out upon his 
temples. " Yes, you may as well know it ; I wish to hide nothing from 
you, Charlotte not even this, the darkest memory of my life. She 
believes I took her diamonds that night of the Sherry affair." 

Although she had partly expected something of the sort, Charlotte 
felt herself grow cold. She turned on him a look of horror. " She be- 
lieves this of you !" 

" Yes, she believes it." Bradford's hands were pressed tightly about 
his knee; he stared ahead for a moment, then looked straight at his 
companion. " Charlotte, could you believe that of me under any 
circumstances, any condition?" 

She met his eyes unwaveringly, feeling a strange little thrill of 
pride as she replied, " No, never !" 

The man's face was convulsed for an instant with a flash of strong 
emotion; he passed his hand over it and mastered himself. "Well," 
he said, speaking slowly and with an effort, "in a sense she is right, 
but not wholly not in the worst sense. Look!" His words seemed 
to benumb Charlotte ; she felt them as she might an insult to herself, 
and watched him in a dazed fashion as he took from his pocket a 
knotted handkerchief, and from it drew the world-famous necklace 
one hundred stones of incomparable size and purity. 

" Each one of these has been burning into me separately night 



196 Social Logic 

and day," he said. "1 have not passed an hour wholly forgetful of 
them since they came into my hands. Do you remember that ball the 
Featherstones gave two winters ago the very evening of my last scene 
with Thyra ? Well, in the midst of it I was taking leave of the hostess, 
feeling little in mood for an affair of that sort, when she asked me as 
a favor to go with her to her doctor's, as she felt extremely ill but 
wished to attract no attention. In the carriage on the way she became 
very excitable; she had got some strange idea in her head about me, 

and vented her feelings However, that is a matter apart and of 

no interest. You know the state of mind and health I was in that 
evening. I could have killed her for subjecting me to more suffering, 
though I little knew how the events of that drive were to dog and annoy 
me through life ! 

" To carry out her pretence I am sure it was for no other reason 
she descended at the doctor's, while I, perforce, waited in the car- 
riage. To my surprise she came hurrying back in a few minutes to 
say that her diamonds had dropped from her throat. We searched 
the carriage through carefully, and every step she had taken to the 
doctor's study, without avail; then hurried back to the ball-room and 
set afoot a systematic search with the help of detectives, but equally 
without result, and, of course, without letting it be known we had left 
the place together. Well, to make the story short, two days later, be- 
fore I was up, the driver of the cab we had occupied that night, a man 
who happened to know me, appeared at my rooms very much agitated 
and frightened. He offered to restore the diamonds to me for ten 
dollars if I'd swear never to use his name in connection with them, 
and vowed he had seen her drop them as she got out of the carriage. 
The man's ignorance and stupidity, as well as evident honesty, moved 
me to redeem the valuables at his price and dismiss him quietly. 

" Hardly had he left my place than a registered letter reached me 
from Mrs. Featherstone containing the hideous insinuation upon which 
she has been gradually embroidering ever since, until now she has 
almost as much as boldly accused me of taking the stones. My hands 
were tied: there was no way I could explain having the diamonds in 
my possession without incriminating myself. I started a search for 
the cabman; put personals in the papers; went to every cab company 
in the city ; but with no better identification than a memory description 
of a commonplace Irishman, of course the search was in vain, and to 
repeat the story even to my best friend would have been folly." 

Charlotte did not speak; this sudden clearing away of the fog of 
suspicion that had so long dulled her vision of the man, that had pre- 
vented her yielding to his strong influence, left her dumb, and unable 
to grasp at once the full significance of the revelation. They moved 



Social Logic 197 

on in silence towards the primrose west, both absorbed in thought, yet 
keenly conscious of each other's presence. 

"There 'must be some way out of .the predicament," she said 
presently. " If her ire should be further aroused, there is no knowing 
what she would do." 

" It is for this reason that I should prefer you do not tell her that 
you have seen me. I have a scheme in mind, and but await her return 
to America. The cabman, I learned only last week, has been at last 
traced by my father's old butler, whom I set on watch. The man went 
on a spree with the ten dollars I paid him, suffered some mishap, and 
was imprisoned in a hospital for nearly a year, which accounts for my 
failing to find him." 

" Oh, good ! What is your scheme ?" 

"I will tell you. Shall we turn?" After giving Charlotte's ad- 
dress to the coachman, he continued in the same even tone: "I shall, 
if possible, have Mrs. Featherstone persuaded to offer again the reward 
she at first offered for the return of the stones, then have the man take 
them himself to her and explain how he found them." 

" Will you be safe in doing that ?" 

" Certainly, he can explain the delay by his accident, and the hos- 
pital records will prove it. The reward will be sufficient for him, he 
will have nothing to gain by bringing my name God ! she has seen 
us!" 

Charlotte looked up startled; close behind them was another car- 
riage that had at that moment turned from a side street into the 
Champs-Elysees crowd. In it was seated Mrs. Featherstone with a 
brace of fine lap-dogs on the seat beside her. 

There was a slight flush upon her face as Charlotte's eyes met hers, 
but she saluted her genially and called out in passing, " Stop at the 
Elysees, dear, I want to see you particularly." 

" Shall I do it ?" asked Charlotte as the vehicle passed beyond them. 

" Yes, there's no help for it now. For some reason it may be better ; 
she may bring up the subject, and you will have an opportunity to 
suggest her offering the reward. But to-night you will not forget we 
are going to the opera ?" 

" Oh, no ; nothing less than a tragedy will make me forget that." 

As Mrs. Featherstone was loitering at the hotel entrance, Bradford, 
after assisting his companion to alight, raised his hat and drove off. 
The lady of wealth appeared not to notice this, but, taking Charlotte's 
hand, tucked it impulsively under her arm. " Come in here and have 
tea," she said in the quick, nervous way she had when secretly excited. 

As usual, the lovely tea-room was crowded with that ubiquitous 
tribe of self-made gentility the newly rich of America. Women with 
dusty-looking necks and unwashed eyes, arrayed in splendid garments, 



198 Social Logic 

sparkling with priceless gems, chattering nasal English or atrocious 
French; men of the vacation-clerk type, newly decked out in goodly 
clothing, freshly shaved and pomaded, and uncomfortably 'conscious of 
it ; the orchestra booming Sousa's " Stars and Stripes ;" the nervous 
little Japs with their long and heavy black pigtails and silken costumes, 
gesticulating in a wild effort to make themselves understood in English 
to ingratiate themselves with " les grandes Americaines," the pro- 
moters of universal currency ! 

They chose a small table that by chance had just been vacated, 
and Mrs. Featherstone gave the order for tea. Near them sat two 
women with very small waists and very large hips, dressed in the 
extreme of fashion and color, flaunting large hats and sprawling as 
much as possible over their table. 

"What's this he's brought us?" cried one, as the waiter placed two 
small glasses of absinthe before them and started off. " Say ! venez 
ice I" she shrieked. " Why, this ain't what I ordered at all. Ne com- 
prenez vous pas? I said, portez a moi du port vin ! N'est-ce pas savey 
vous port vin ?" While the unfortunate servant looked wildly about for 
a colleague to assist him, Charlotte's attention was demanded by her 
companion. 

" Why did you tell me that Mr. Bradford was not in Paris ?" she 
asked quite gently, but with a critical gleam in her eyes. " I am at a 
loss to understand your object." 

Charlotte was annoyed. " Pardon me," she said somewhat stiffly, 
" I did not say he was not here, for I knew nothing of his whereabouts 
until the other day." 

Mrs. Featherstone professed herself glad to hear this, as she did not 
consider it wise for Charlotte to be seen in company with him or to 
encourage his attentions. Then the story of the lost diamonds was 
related with much bitter resentment towards Bradford, whom she 
acknowledged she had foolishly shielded in the beginning. 

As Charlotte listened she found it hard to refrain from defending 
him, but wisely decided to merely scoff at the idea of his guilt. " What 
I know of him," she said, " is enough to make me feel quite confident 
he is the last man in the world who could be guilty of such a deed. 
Why do you not offer a reward and promise to protect from punishment 
anyone who returns them? Someone must be secreting them or they 
would have been traced before this." 

" Oh, I have done that, and mean to do it again on my return to 
New York; but I have reason to believe Bradford is the one who could 
assist me most in finding them if he cared to, and I don't mind your 
telling him so, if you wish, for I am tired of suffering through nasty 
stories ; and as he sees fit to be so very indifferent, if the suspicion falls 
upon him, he can bear the brunt of it \" 



Social Logic 199 

"I should not so insult him/' returned Charlotte with uncon- 
trollable heat, " and without the most unquestionable proof it would oe 
a cruel thing to throw suspicion upon him." 

"Kot! It will not be I who will throw suspicion upon him. I 
have defended him all this time, kept him from being hounded; but 
now well, I don't care what happens ! But I do know that his sudden 
affluence and airiness are not points in his favor." 

" He has come into some money by the death of his uncle ; besides, 
he is doing well at " 

" Oh, I know ; that is all very " Mrs. Featherstone broke in, 

then interrupted herself to bow to someone back of Charlotte and added 
in a lower tone, " When you have a chance look back of you and tell 
me what you think of the little woman in white broadcloth, Made- 
moiselle Laforge, half English and half French, and considered the 
most beautiful woman in Paris. She scandalized Europe by travelling 
about South Italy this winter with young Jacques d'Orlet, who has an 
invalid wife living. They say he is merely waiting to be relieved of the 
incubus to make her his second. To me she is not tall enough; there 
is nothing splendid about her." 

Charlotte was looking into her cup ; the words crashed through her 
brain with devastating force; yet they seemed to be the fulfilment of 
some inner forewarning, like the ruinous explosion of an earthquake 
following ominous rumblings. She made no sign, though the blood in 
her veins was chilled to an iciness that rendered her incapable of move- 
ment. Mrs. Featherstone continued in the same politely vindictive 
tone, entirely unconscious of the pain she caused, being ignorant of 
Charlotte's acquaintance with the Count. When she had finished the 
girl turned carefully to view the being in question. 

He was there, within twenty yards of her, bending over the fair- 
haired bit of femininity she had seen with him in the automobile. 
Charlotte avoided meeting his eyes, she dreaded exchanging with him 
another cold salutation. Her relations with him were at an end. She 
felt this beyond a doubt his life was full without her. And how could 
she blame him ? She had thrown away what this woman had gladly 
grasped; she had been given as much love, perhaps more, and she 

had Love ! The very word mocked her, it bred a new revolt in her 

blood, a revolt that had fermented to a sort of scoffing philosophy by 
the time Bradford came for her in the evening. 

She found him alone in the little drawing-room standing near an 
artistically arranged cabinet examining a small lapis lazuli casket. 
There had come a determination to Charlotte; it filled her mind as 
she entered the room. She felt not in the least sorry for herself, she 
merely craved action, to take up something of importance and push it 



200 Social Logic 

to a final issue. No tears had come to relieve the pang of loss; she 
had already given to this particular sorrow the limit of her grieving, 
for there is a limit even to grief, now she clung tenaciously to an idea 
that was wholly apart from it, in an effort to close her thoughts to the 
sudden relaxation of her nature before this final loss of all it had aimed 
for and dreamed of. 

Bradford's back was towards her. He appeared impressively tall 
and well-proportioned in the little room, and it caused her a sense of 
comfort to know that he was feeling friendly towards her. 

" I am going to disgust and perhaps disappoint you," were her first 
words ; " I cannot go with you to-night to the opera." 

His expression revealed the astonishment he felt; but after an 
instant's scrutiny of the pale face he said : " Has anything happened ? 
Are you in trouble ?" 

The words made her feel for the first time like weeping; her throat 
closed, but she laughed. "Oh, no; but I want to get out of Paris 
at once. Besides, it is absolutely necessary that either you or I shall 
go at once to America, and it had better be I." 

He appeared perplexed. " You or I ?" he said wonderingly. " I 
don't understand." 

" Mrs. Featherstone is bitter against you ; she means to move heaven 
and earth to bring disgrace upon you; it is a case of the woman 
scorned; it cannot be trifled with." Unaccountably Charlotte's voice 
quivered, her words came in a rush ; she feared that he might discover 
her hurt ; that he might even be kind and sympathetic without knowing 
it. He was a man whose sympathy would offer dangerous balm to a 
heart that had been so long fevered by the delirium of love ; she shrank 
from even while her nature hungered for it. " I have decided to go at 
once to Cherbourg and catch the St. Louis on her return trip. If 
you will entrust the diamonds to me, I shall carry out your instructions 
completely, and no suspicion can fall upon you." 

Bradford stared at her. "You will do this?" he said with feeling. 
" Why ? Can it be Charlotte !" 

Before she realized how he was understanding her, Charlotte felt 
herself in his arms. For the first time since those hours with d'Orlet 
she felt the warm, strong embrace of a man enfolding her with com- 
forting tenderness, a tenderness that is conveyed from one individual 
to another only through the medium of affinity. Every fibre of her 
being responded to it ; the tears she had instinctively restrained bathed 
his shoulder; sobs shook her in his arms. 

" I shall go with you," he whispered. " There is no danger ; and 
when this is settled we shall go about the world on a vacation voyage. 
Together we shall reach some point of satisfaction, some plane of con- 
tent." 



The Farm Child's Lullaby 201 

She looked up into his face, a smile gleaming through her tears. 
" But love," she said, " what of that ?" 

" Oh, love ! Let us not mar our relations with the word ; it has 
proved worthless to both of us. Let us, instead, christen the bond that 
binds us ' Harmony/ it will mean more strength and more happiness 
in the end." 



THE FARM CHILD'S LULLABY 

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 

OH, the little bird is rocking in the cradle of the wind, 
And it's bye, my little wee one, bye ; 
The harvest all is gathered and the pippins all are binned ; 
Bye, my little wee one, bye; 

The little rabbit's hiding in the golden shock of corn, 
The thrifty squirrel's laughing bunny's idleness to scorn; 
You are smiling with the angels in your slumber, smile till morn ; 
So it's bye, my little wee one, bye. 

There'll be plenty in the cellar, there'll be plenty on the shelf; 

Bye, my little wee one, bye; 
There'll be goodly store of sweetings for a dainty little elf ; 

Bye, my little wee one, bye. 

The snow may be a-flying o'er the meadow and the hill, 
The ice has checked the chatter of the little laughing rill, 
But in your cosey cradle you are warm and happy still; 

So bye, my little wee one, bye. 

Why, the Bob White thinks the snowflake is a brother to his song ; 

Bye, my little wee one, bye; 
And the chimney sings the sweeter when the wind is blowing strong ; 

Bye, my little wee one, bye ; 

The granary's overflowing, full is cellar, crib, and bin, 
The wood has paid its tribute and the ax has ceased its din ; 
The winter may not harm you when you're sheltered safe within ; 

So bye, my little wee one, bye. 



MOODS AND MEMORIES 

By George Moore 

Author of "Avowals" "Esther Waters," etc. 



VI. 

OCTAVE BARRES liked his friends to come to his studio. I 
and a few others who believed in his talent used to drop in in 
the course of the afternoon, and little by little I got to know 
every picture, every sketch, but one never knows everything that a 
painter has done, and one day as I came into the studio I saw a full- 
length portrait that I had never seen before on the easel. 

" It was in the back room turned to the wall," he said. " I took it 
out, thinking that the Russian prince who ordered the Pegasus decora- 
tion might buy it," and he turned away, not liking to hear my praise 
of it, for it neither pleases a painter to hear his early works praised 
nor abused. " I painted it before I knew how to paint," and standing 
before me, his palette in his hand, he expounded his new asstheticism, 
that up to the beginning of the nineteenth century all painting had 
been done first in monochrome and then glazed, that what we know as 
solid painting had been invented by Greuze. He had been to the Louvre 
and had perceived something in Delacroix, something not wholly satis- 
factory; this something had set him thinking, but it was Rubens who 
had revealed the secret; it was Rubens who had taught him how to 
paint. He admitted that there was danger in retracing one's steps, in 
beginning one's education over again; but what help was there for it 
since painting was not taught in the schools ? 

I had heard all he had to say before, and could not change my belief 
that every man must live in the ideas of his time, be they good or bad. It 
is easy to say that we must only adopt Rubens's method and jealously 
guard against any infringement on our personality; but in art our per- 
sonality is determined by the methods we employ, and Octave's portrait 
interested me more than the Pegasus decoration or the three pink Ve- 
nuses holding a basket of flowers above their heads. The portrait was 
crude and violent, but so was the man that had painted it; it had been 
painted when he was a disciple of Manet's and the methods of Manet were 
in agreement with my friend's temperament. We are all impressionists 
to-day, we are eager to note down what we feel and see, and the care- 

202 



Moods and Memories 203 

fully prepared rhetorical manner of Eubens was as incompatible with 
Octave's temperament as the manner of John Milton is with mine. 
There was a thought of Goya in the background, in the contrast between 
the gray and the black, and there was something of Manet's simplifica- 
tions in the face, but these echoes were faint, nor did they matter, for 
they were of our time. In looking at his model he had seen and felt 
something; he had noted this idea harshly, crudely, but he noted it; 
and to do this is, after all, the main thing. His sitter had inspired 
him; the word " inspired " would offend him, so I said that he had been 
fortunate in his sitter, and he admitted to see that thin, olive-com- 
plexioned girl with fine, delicate features and blue-black hair lying 
close about her head like feathers she wore her hair as a blackbird 
wears his wing compelled one to paint; and after admiring the face 
I admired the black silk dress he had painted her in, a black silk dress 
covered with black lace. She wore gray pearls in her ears and pearls 
upon her neck. 

I was interested in the quality of the painting, so different from Oc- 
tave's present painting, but I was more interested in the woman herself. 
The picture revealed to me something in human nature that I had 
never seen before, something that I had never thought of. The woman's 
soul in this picture was so intense that I forgot the painting and began 
to think of her; she was so unlike the women one met in Octave 
Barres' studio, a studio beloved of women; they seemed to be of all 
sorts, but, in truth, they were only of one sort. They began to arrive 
about four o'clock in the afternoon and they stayed until they were 
sent away. He allowed them to play and sing to him ; he allowed them, 
as he would phrase it, to grouiller about the place, and they talked of 
the painters they had sat to, of their gowns, and they showed us their 
shoes and their garters. He heeded them hardly at all, walking to 
and fro thinking of his painting, of his archaic painting. I often 
wondered if his appearance counted for anything in his renunciation 
of modern methods, and certainly his appearance was a link of asso- 
ciation ; he did not look like a modern man, he looked like a sixteenth- 
century baron; his beard and his broken nose and his hierarchal air 
contributed to the resemblance; the jersey he wore reminded one of a 
cuirass, a coat of mail. Even in his choice of a dwelling-place he seemed 
instinctively to avoid the modern; he had found a studio in a street, 
the name of which no one had ever heard before; it was found with 
difficulty, and his studio was hidden behind great, crumbling walls, 
a strange place in the middle of a plot of ground in which someone 
was growing cabbages ; he was always, as he would phrase it, dans une 
declie epouvantdble, but he managed to keep a thoroughbred horse in 
the stable at the end of the garden, and this horse was ordered as soon 



204 Moods and Memories 

as the light failed. He would say, " Mes amis et mes amis, je regret 
mais mon cheval m' attend" And the women liked to see him mount, 
and many thought, I am sure, that he looked like a Centaur as he rode 
away. 

But who was this strange refinement? this painting tells things 
that cannot be translated into words this olive-skinned girl that might 
have sat to Eaphael for a Virgin ? She was quite different from Octave's 
usual women, they were of the Montmartre kin ; but this woman might 
be a Spanish or a Russian princess. And remembering that Octave 
had said he had taken out the portrait hoping that the Russian who 
had ordered the Pegasus might buy it, the thought struck me that she 
might be the Russian prince's mistress. His mistress! Oh, what 
fabulous fortune ! And what might her history be ? I burned to hear 
about her, and wearied of Octave's seemingly endless chatter about his 
method of painting; I had heard all he was saying many times before, 
but I listened to it all again, and to propitiate him I regretted that the 
picture was not painted in his present manner, " for there are good 
things in the picture," I said, " and the model you seem to have been 
lucky with your model." 

"Yes, she was nice to paint from, but it was difficult to get her 
to sit. Une grue you wouldn't think it, would you?" My astonish- 
ment amused him, he began to laugh. " You don't know her ?" he said. 
" That is Marie Pellegrin," and when I asked him where he had met 
her he told me that he had met her at Alphonsine's ; but I did not 
know where Alphonsine's was. 

"I'm going to dine there to-night. I'm going to meet her; she's 
going back to Russia with the Prince; she has been staying in the 
Quartier Breda on her holiday. Sacre nom! Half -past five, and I 
haven't washed my brushes yet !" 

In answer to my question, what he meant by going to the Quartier 
Breda for a holiday, he said, 

" I'll tell you about that in the carriage." 

But no sooner had we got into the carriage than he remembered 
that he must leave word for a woman who had promised to sit to him, 
and swearing that it would not delay us for more than a few minutes 
he directed the coachman. She ran out of her room, wrapping herself 
as she ran in a peignoir, and the sitting was discussed in the middle 
of a polished parquet floor. But we were hardly seated in the carriage 
when he remembered another appointment. He scribbled notes in the 
lodges of the concierges, and between whiles told me all he knew of the 
story of Marie Pellegrin. This delicate woman that I had felt could 
not be of the Montmartre kin was the daughter of a concierge on the 
boulevard Exterieur. She had run away from home at fifteen, and had 
danced at the Elyse"e Montmartre, 



Moods and Memories 205 

" Sa jupe avait des trous, 
Elle aimait des yoyous, 
Us ont des yeux si doux." 

But one day a Russian prince had caught sight of her ; he had built 
her a palace in the Champs Elysees; but the Eussian prince and his 
palace bored her. 

The stopping of the carriage interrupted Octave's narrative, and 
he said, " Here we are." A bell hung on a jangling wire, and the green 
door in the crumbling wall was opened by an undersized woman. This 
was Alphonsine, and her portrait, a life-size caricature drawn by 
Octave, faced me from the whitewashed wall of the hen-coop. He had 
drawn her two cats purring about her legs, and had written under it, 
"Us viennent apres le mou." There was no grass in Alphonsine's 
garden; but I think there was one tree; a tent had been stretched 
from wall to wall, and a seedy-looking waiter was laying the tables, 
placing bottles of wine in front of each knife and fork, and bread in 
long sticks at regular intervals. But he was constantly disturbed by 
the ringing of the bell, and had to run to the door to admit the com- 
pany. Here and there I recognized faces that I had already seen in 
the studio, Clementine, who last year was studying the part of Elsa 
and this year was singing, " La femme de feu, cui, la cui, la cuisiniere," 
in a cafe chantant ; and Margaret Byron, who had just retreated from 
Russia a disastrous campaign hers was said to have been. But a greater 
number were hors concours. Alphonsine's was to the aged courtesan 
what Chelsea hospital is to the aged soldier. It was a sort of human 
garden full of sound and color of October. 

I scrutinized the crowd. How could any one of these women inter- 
est the woman whose portrait I had seen in Barres' studio? That 
one, for instance, whom I saw every morning in the Rue des Martyres 
going marketing, a basket on her arm. Search as I would, I could 
not find a possible friend for Marie among the women nor a lover 
among the men, not one of the two stout middle-aged men with large 
whiskers, who had probably once been stock-brokers, nor the withered 
journalist whom I heard speaking to Octave about a duel he had fought 
recently ; nor the little sandy Scotchman whose French was not under- 
stood by the women and whose English was nearly unintelligible to me; 
nor the man who looked like a head-waiter Alphonsine's lover; he 
had been a waiter, and he told you with the air of Napoleon describing 
Waterloo that he had "created" a certain fashionable cafe" on the 
boulevard. I could not attribute any one of these men to Marie; and 
Octave spoke of her with indifference; she had interested him to paint, 
and now he hoped she would get the Russian to buy her picture. 

" But she's not here," I said. 



206 The Southern Honey Locust 

" She'll be here presently," Octave answered, and he went on talk- 
ing to Clementine, a fair, pretty woman whom one saw every night at 
the Eat Mort. The soup-plates were being taken away, we were served 
with blanquette de veau, and it was then that I saw a young woman 
dressed in black crossing the garden ; a murmur went round the table. 
It was she ! Marie Pellegrin. 



THE SOUTHERN HONEY LOCUST 

BY LILIAN C. B. McALLISTER. 

ONCE in the city park, 
Leaving the dust and heat and noise of the city, 
Wandering through narrow byways, 
Sudden my senses thrilled to an odor afar off : 
An odor just wafted, delicate, subtle, elusive, 
Breath of the Southland fanning the brow of the North. 

Down the narrow path, 

The perfume nearing, expanding, ever increasing, 
Engulfing me now with billow on billow of fragrance, 
Uncertain I wandered. I thought I smelled the sweet-brier, 
The wild honeysuckle, but no, 'twas the locust ! the locust ! 
Beautiful, shaking its millionfold sweets to the wind. 

Oh locust-tree of the South ! 

You blossoms of honeyed snow full of tremulous motion! 
Were you gladdened to see me there in the fresh May morning 
That you leaned to me so and beckoned with joyous insistence ? 
Luminous, delicate plumes, I believe that you knew me, 
And were joyed to the heart to greet an old lover and friend. 

Down on the soft, cool earth, 

Down at the foot, 'neath the boughs of the white honey-locust, 
Pensive there in the sunlight and shade ever changing, 
Mused I, dreaming again the dreams of my childhood. 
Musing and dreaming so lay I until the white locust 
Hushed its low murmur and curtained itself for the night. 



OLD HOME WEEK IN 
BOHEMIA 

By Eleanor A. Hallowell 



IN the shabby, cosey, jocund little dining-room of the Cafe Heart's 
Desire two men sat lolling one June night over their newspapers 
and their supper. Through a maze of tobacco-smoke and a gleam 
of red wine they discussed impartially the general toughness of city 
politics and the inordinate tenderness of the great fillet of beef which 
graced their table. 

One of the men, Kalph Guthrie, was tall and lean and shabby, with 
the easy, deliberate shabbiness of the gentleman-born Bohemian who 
dares to be any wilful thing that he pleases ; yet the newspaper in his 
listless hand was folded trigly and slimly to the very column of his 
interest, with all the fastidious nicety of a surgeon with a bandage. 

The other man, Barney Scott, was of sturdier build, with a frankly 
fashionable air about him. He had a merry, roving eye, a witty, twisted 
mouth, and hands that strewed his paper all over the table and the floor 
in a wild manipulation that closely resembled a novice trying to make 
up a double bed. 

Both men were forty-five years old or thereabouts, clean-shaven, 
lusty, and eternally young, with " bachelor" stamped indelibly on every 
vestige of their manners and their makeup. 

It seemed to the doughty little Proprietor of the Heart's Desire as 
though there had not been a night in twenty years when he had not 
stood as now and watched at that corner table the blatant, grotesque con- 
trast of those two modern, American faces against the gaudy, Baccha- 
nalian scenes on his painted walls. Sometimes when Guthrie threw his 
great length backward and tossed his dark head one side in a manner- 
ism of his, it looked as though he were trying to escape an airy pink- 
and-white nymph who came skirting down the fresco towards his 
mouth. The quaint humor pleased the little Proprietor, and some- 
times he would rub his hands with unconscious glee when Barney 
Scott seemed to butt his blond face right into the midst of a wedding 
procession of white bulls and dancing maidens and indiscriminate gar- 
lands of posies. 

In such simple delights and vagaries the Proprietor sought to forget 

207 



208 Old Home Week in Bohemia 

the troubles of this world and the next, and did his best with hearty 
greeting and unfailing cheer to extort love as well as money from his 
patrons. Every atom of his modest cabaret was dear to him. In win- 
ter he hung Ms narrow windows with crimson curtains so that the cold 
might not even look in, but that the warmth might smile out ruddily 
into the bleak and snowy street. And in winter too he piled his fire- 
place high with great birch logs, that his guests when they had feasted 
might come and gather round the blaze to drink their big mugs of 
ale before they went home to the doubtful comforts of scolding women 
or smoking stoves, or the bare hall-bedroom destitute of either. 

But winter was by no means the best of the year, for in sultry sum- 
mer, as on this June night, the room was cool and mysterious with 
candle-light and tinkling ice, perhaps, if you chose to pay for it, your 
whole meal was served on glass as clear and luscious as a swimming- 
pool, while through the open windows came the remote, virile street- 
sounds of brick and cobble-stone, with now and then the lush murmur 
of passing voices, or by chance the plaintive strains of a harp with its 
inevitable soft, thudding accompaniment of bare feet dancing on the 
pavement. 

But, winter or summer, fire or ice, the little Proprietor of Heart's 
Desire was always and forever studying the comfort of his guests, and, 
indeed, his regular patrons had long since dubbed him with the sobri- 
quet of " Hope Fulfilled." He certainly represented everything im- 
mediate in the way of happiness. He was a wonder. It seemed as 
though he could judge by the color of the eye whether a guest preferred 
red wine or white, rare beef or burned. Without fluttering round 
the room or staring or fussing, he could tell by the flicker of an 
eyebrow whether his patrons were pleased or not with their orders, 
and in the matter of mint juleps the man was a marvel and a miracle ; 
he seemed to size up in a second whether the thirsty one was an amateur 
or a professional. If the stranger haileH from the North, that canny 
Proprietor would gather together a pungent, frosty welcome that went 
straight to the heart like a soda lemonade; but if the stranger were 
a Southerner, he could sniff it at a glance, and would mix him up such 
a red-hot concoction of ice and spirits as would taste for all the world 
like " hell frozen over." 

The Proprietor certainly had his favorites among the guests, but 
he treated all alike with gracious courtesy, whether they came in bois- 
terous parties for full orchestral table d'hote dinners or wandered in 
singly and glumly for a sad soup-solo. 

Guthrie and Scott were among the favorites. Guthrie he knew to 
be a man of wealth and social prominence, with a strange hankering 
after pawn-shop bric-a-bric and an indolent generosity towards all man- 
kind. Scott, on the other hand, represented the slap and dash and 



Old Home Week in Bohemia 209 

rollic of Bohemia, and was among the very few who ever introduced 
the wonderful rustle of petticoats and the purple scent of violets into 
the be-trousered, smoky precincts of the Cafe Heart's Desire. 

Looking now at the two oldest patrons of his hostelry, the Pro- 
prietor detected the nicker of a wish, and was half-way across the room 
before Guthrie had finished his beckoning. Guthrie pointed lazily to a 
news item and held the paper out to the Proprietor with a friendly, 
smiling query, " Do you remember Gaston ?" 

" Gaston ?" questioned the Proprietor with crinkled forehead, 
"Gaston?" 

"Yes, Gaston, the student. Don't you remember?" persisted 
Guthrie. 

" Why, of course you remember Gaston," interrupted Scott. " He 
was here at the first, used to drop in most every night to supper a 
little, thin, stoop-shouldered fellow, with a great big, leathery head 
like a dictionary." 

Slowly recognition and remembrance flooded back to the Pro- 
prietor. " Oh, yes, now I know the little student fellow who lived on 
thirty cents a day " 

" Who thought he did," corrected Scott, remembering vividly the 
double portions of everything that were served to " Little Gaston." 

" Well, anyway," said Guthrie, pointing to the paper, " he's a col- 
lege president now, and it seems he's going to make a grand speech 
up in Maine somewhere at the opening exercises of an Old Home 
Week." 

"Hooray for Little Gaston!" shouted Barney Scott vociferously. 
" Let's drink his memory green in a creme de menthe. Sit down with 
us." 

" I will," said the Proprietor, " as soon as I have concocted the re- 
membrance. These drinks allow me, gentlemen are on the house." 

" Those were good old days," mused Guthrie a few moments later, 
as the three glasses kissed tinklingly across the dismantled table ; " none 
such," he added gruffly. 

" Oh, I don't know," Scott contradicted, and blushed like a girl as 
he quoted, 

" Grow old along with me, the Best is yet to be." 

" Since when have you taken to quoting poetry ?" flared Guthrie in 
amazement, then lapsed again into his original reverie. 

" It was a great old gang," he drawled. " There was Gaston, and 
Billy James, the actor, and that darned old Socialist, Peter Harrigan, 
and " 

" Molly Fessenden," prompted Scott joyously. " Don't forget Molly 
and her Sunday-paper poetry." 



210 Old Home Week in Bohemia 

" No," laughed Guthrie, " nor that little witch, Barbara, the artist, 
with her face like a gargoyle and her heart like a holy angel ; nor Alec 
Merriman, let me see, he's a bishop or something now oh, the whole 
gang. How I'd like to see them back " 

" Well, why not ?" exclaimed Scott with a jump that sent his cor- 
dial-glass shivering in splinters on the floor. " Why don't we go and get 
them all back? What's the matter with having an Old Home Week 
of our own ? Hi, I think that's a bully idea ! What do you folks say ?" 

" I'm with you," Guthrie admitted with unwonted enthusiasm. " If 
our old friend here agrees, we'll have it surer than fate." 

The Proprietor fairly beamed his approval. 

" And we'll have it the first week in October, when there's enough 
frost and fire in a man's veins to make him fairly hanker to go home 
and gather in around something. I don't believe there's a man in the 
whole crowd who gets through October without wishing he was back. 
And, by Jove ! we'll have them back ; and I'll foot the bills if you'll 
keep your mouths shut. Of course, we can't run a free lunch for a 
whole week, it would gather in every bum in the city, but there'll 
be some expenses all right, and I seem to be the only man I know who 
hasn't anything better to do than run up bills. Here, Barney, is that 
a pencil in your pocket ? Give me the back of that menu. What'll we 
have a notice in the paper, or a personal line where we know the 
address? Both, I guess. I don't know how they run these things, but 
let's put ' Heart's Desire, Heart's Desire, Heart's Desire,' three times 
like that across the top. That ought to attract everyone's attention from 
a bishop to a bar-maid. Then let's say, * Come back. First seven days 
in October. "Old Home Week in Bohemia.' How's that?" 

" Fine," grinned the Proprietor. " There'll be an awful crowd. I 
only hope the police won't raid us if there's a noise." 

" Noise ?" blurted out Scott. " I hope they'll raise the roof. I 
hope they'll stretch the sky. The only thing I'm afraid of is that there 
won't be any noise. I'm afraid that some sentimental old bloke who 
used to be a decent chap will get up the first night and moralize with 
a sort of a ' What, ain't you dead yet ?' sort of expression, and gyrate 
about the sunset of life and the dear departed, and every other kill-joy 
he can think of, as some of those damned cusses do at the regular Old 
Home Weeks. You'd better put a warning on your notices, something 
about ' friends are requested not to send flowers.' Any fellow with 
sense will understand the allusion, and if any fellow comes without any 
sense, we'll rotten-egg him." 

Some weeks later, when the Eev. Bishop Merriman and his wife 
were seated one morning at their breakfast-table looking over the morn- 
ing mail, Mrs. Bishop glanced up with a little gasp of surprise. 



Old Home Week in Bohemia 211 

" Why, Alec !" she exclaimed, " here's the funniest notice in the 
morning paper. What do you suppose it means? Listen: 

" HEART'S DESIRE, HEART'S DESIRE, HEART'S DESIRE. 

COME BACK. FIRST SEVEN DAYS IN OCTOBER. 

OLD HOME WEEK IN BOHEMIA. 

" FRIENDS ARE REQUESTED 

NOT 
To SEND FLOWERS.' " 

" Where's it dated from ?" asked the Bishop, dropping the Church 
Courier from his hands. 

" From Boston of all places," puzzled the lady. 

" Well, I'll be jiggered !" said the Bishop. 

"Why, A-l-e-x-a-n-d-e-r !" gasped the lady with an entirely new 
kind of a gasp. " Tell me instantly all about it." 

Whereupon the Bishop obeyed in a fine ecclesiastical voice that had 
probably done more to shape his destiny than had any particular twist 
of soul or mind. 

"Why, Heart's Desire," he explained, "is a queer little Bohemian 
cafe where I used to sport now and then when I was a youngster. 
Those were gay old days," he added furtively, as after one glance at 
his wife's sombre face he plunged back conscientiously into the " Mis- 
sion Notes" of the Church Courier. 

" Well," said Mrs. Bishop emphatically, " I knew you'd been a Bap- 
tist, and I knew you used to play on a base-ball team, and I knew you'd 
had the scarlet fever twice, but I never, never suspected that you'd ever 
been a Bohemian." 

" Umph !" grunted the Bishop over the top of his paper. " Umph ! 
I see that St. John's has raised eight hundred dollars for the Alaskan 
Indians. Why, there used to be a man back at the Heart's Desire who 
knew all the Alaskan Indians by their first names. He'd hunted and 
fished and everything with them; his name was Guthrie, and he was 
nothing but a child. And there was a pretty girl named Molly some- 
thing, whom I used to be a bit sweet on, and President Gaston yes, I 
declare, he was one of the crowd too. Goodness, but I'd sort of like to 
go back there that first week in October." 

" Let's," said Mrs. Bishop astonishingly across the rim of her coffee- 
cup. 

Out in Chicago Billy James, the actor, ran across the notice while 
he was shaving in his dressing-room. Peter Harrigan, the Socialist, 
stumbled on the item while he was haranguing to a hall full of people 
on the subject of mill-wages. Standing grim and dour on the public 



212 Old Home Week in Bohemia 

platform, searching with near-sighted ferocity through the pages of a 
newspaper for the particular editorial that had aroused his ire, he was 
seen suddenly to grin and sputter like a trolley that has slipped. 
Gaston, " Little Gaston," President Gaston, opened his marked news- 
paper irritably as he sat at his study desk scolding his young son for 
some trivial breach of sophomore propriety. " Heart's Desire ?" Oh, 
the long thoughts, the blinding visions ! Oh, the magic, thrilling won- 
der of Youth when a man might bite and claw his way to the very heart 
of the world and be even then only on the edge of things. Heart's 
Desire ? and all the world to want from. " You may go now," said 
President Gaston to his young son. " You may go. After all, one is 
not young very often, nor for very long at a time/' 

Pretty Molly Fessenden was not writing poetry nowadays for the 
Sunday papers, but had long since established herself with a seven- 
day income and a prosperous husband in the confectionery business. 
" We'll not go to the sea-shore this year," she said, " but I'll have my 
new clothes just the same, and we'll take the two children and go back 
to Bohemia and see the boys." 

Barbara, the artist, hesitated a good while over her invitation. " It's 
like raising the dead to go back," she argued. 

So one and all who were able and willing went home to Heart's 
Desire for the first week in October. Patrons of a week, of a month, 
of a year, of twenty years, met blithely together in a smoky maze 
of brand-new dreams and shop-worn realities, while the little Proprietor 
of Heart's Desire ran beamingly hither and thither like a head-light 
through a fog. 

President Gaston's young son blinked with delight to behold his 
austere father in daily confab with a noted actress of the day. Bishop 
Merriman and Peter Harrigan thrashed out anew all their old dis- 
pute over aristocracy and democracy, while Mrs. Bishop, with flushed 
cheeks and sparkling eyes, sat in a mingled ecstasy of thrills and chills. 
Barney Scott was in his element, slapping people on their backs, wring- 
ing their hands, almost off their wrists, and otherwise disporting him- 
self according to his humor and his muscle. He made himself Molly 
Fessenden's shadow, quite ignoring her good-natured husband, and 
dined each night with one of her children on either side of him. " You 
were a fool not to marry me," he kept whispering in Molly's ear, but 
Molly only retorted with a wry face and a sly, " You were a fool never 
to ask me to," while she cast languishing glances in the direction of 
her husband. 

Ealph Guthrie was the master of ceremonies. He brought old 
friends together. He advised people about lodging-places. He doled 
out time-tables, and lent money, and acted generally, as Scott said, " like 
the Father of his Country." With his easy tact he led the visitors 



Old Home Week in Bohemia 213 

every night into speech-making and reminiscences, relying on Barney 
Scott's wild guffaw to break up any oratorical attempt at morbidness 
or sentiment, and every night just before the hour of closing he tipped 
a wink to Barney, and started up in his high, fine tenor the Bohemian 
carol that Molly Fessenden had written years before, and Barney's deep 
voice lagged in a minute late, and over in the corner the Bishop's 
baritone plunged in as to an anthem, and one by one old friends and 
new took up the strain, and the little Cafe of Heart's Desire rang 
with a perfect passion of song the trained voice here and there 
flooded and drowned by the eager, tremulous voices that sang by heart, 
not note. 

This song every night was the signal for departure, and ten min- 
utes after its finish the room was emptied of all guests except Guthrie 
and Barbara, who dallied as twenty years before over their coats, and 
hurried off at last in a panic at being so late. 

So the week went by, in comradeship and unflagging cheer, until 
the last evening brought its vague, desolating sense of separation. 
Everyone talked fast and laughed long and loud, but underneath it all 
was a strident realization of " the parting of the ways." 

At the corner table Molly Fessenden and Barbara, Barney Scott 
and Guthrie, sat together for their last meeting. Barney and Molly 
fairly screamed with jokes and laughter, but Barbara's hazel eyes were 
fixed dumbly and staringly on Molly's children, who frolicked with the 
Proprietor. Guthrie, for an instant left out of events, began to be 
conscious that Bohemia was going to be a bit dull after everybody had 
gone, and in that consciousness he stared reminiscently at Barbara's 
averted face, till she turned on him unexpectedly and remarked with a 
smile, " No, Ealph, I am not as homely as I used to be." 

Guthrie winced, but could not deny the keenness of her mind-read- 
ing, and answered simply, " No, Barbara, dear, you are not. The years 
have taken the incongruity out of your face. I think you are really 
rather distinguished looking;" then, smiling with a certain friendly 
tenderness, he added in an undertone, " but you couldn't be nicer than 
you are if you were a ten-thousand-dollar beauty. I never half appre- 
ciated you and I wish you were going to stay, we'd have better times 
now than we ever dreamed of having in the old days." His voice 
broke. 

Then he saw in Barbara's eyes a wonder of tears, and such a look 
of loneliness and pain as suddenly made his long arms seem very 
empty. 

" Why, Barbara," he whispered, " I didn't know you were as tired 
as that. Why don't you stay and be my wife, and give up your end- 
less struggle of ambition and poverty. I've got enough for two, and I'm 
a bit lonesome myself. I guess we could learn love together." 



214 



Old Home Week in Bohemia 



But Barbara covered her face with her hands, as though someone 
had struck her. 

" Oh, no," she faltered, " it's too late now for us. We've been away 
from each other too long." 

" What's that you say ?" said Guthrie, stooping nearer to catch her 
words. 

" I said, ' Think of the years,' " Barbara answered faintly. " Noth- 
ing could help that awful chasm of twenty years. Oh, no, it isn't pos- 
sible." 

" Nonsense !" insisted Guthrie. " Bother your chasm a single kiss 
could bridge it," and he put his hand out towards her. 

" Kiss, kissing, who's talking about kissing ?" exclaimed Barney, 
pouncing like a hawk into the conversation. " Here, you people, it's 
eleven o'clock. Guthrie, get on to your job and start the music." 

And Guthrie, with a twinkling glance into Barbara's eyes, tipped 
back in his chair and began to sing, and one by one the others took up 
the song, and shouted it lustily for the last time, while the little 
Proprietor of Heart's Desire put his head down on his counter and 
sobbed as though his heart would break, because Old Home Week was 
over. 

And Molly Fessenden's Bohemian carol became quite accidentally a 
betrothal hymn. 



Let Him-Who-Will waste his glad days 
In prosy paths and tedious ways, 
Let Him-Who-Will fret out his heart 
In wrangling stress of trade and mart, 
Let Him-Who-Will risk peace and health 
To stack his chests with jangling wealth, 
But as for me, I rob no home, 

I raid no foreign clime, 
The world may keep its treasures safe 

As long as I Keep mine. 

So, blithe and gay, I go my way, 
A little freer every day, 
Content to wander here or there 
As long as joy is everywhere, 
Assured that when my youthful fires 

Are banked with ash and ember. 
I then may doze and dream and die 

With glad things to remember! 



Let Him-Who-Cares rake up the dead 

To test the weight of heart or head, 

Let Him-Who-Cares search sea and shore 

To prod Old Nature to the core, 

Let Him-Who-Cares torment the earth 

To solve the wonder of its birth, 

But as for me, I rob no home, 

I raid no foreign clime, 
The world may keep its secrets safe 

As long as I keep mine. 

So, blithe and gay, I go my way, 
A little freer every day, 
Content to wander here or there 
As long as joy is everywhere, 
Assured that when my youthful fires 

Are banked with ash and ember, 
I then may doze and dream and die 

With glad things to remember! 



THE HIGHWAY 

BY LOUISE DRISCOLL 

A~ L day long on the highway 
The King's fleet couriers ride; 
You may hear the tread of their horses sped 
Over the country side. 

They ride for life and they ride for death 
And they override who tarryeth. 
With show of color and flush of pride 
They stir the dust on the highway. 

Let them ride on the highway wide, 
Love walks in little paths aside. 

All day long on the highway 

Is the tramp of an army's feet ; 

You may see them go in a marshalled row 

With the tale of their arms complete: 

They march for war and they march for peace, 
For the lust of gold and fame's increase, 

For victories sadder than defeat 

They raise the dust on the highway. 

All the armies of earth defied, 
Love dwells in little paths aside. 

All day long on the highway 

Eushes an eager band, 

With straining eyes for a worthless prize 

That slips from the grasp like sand. 

And men leave blood where their feet have stood 
And bow them down unto brass and wood 

Idols fashioned by their own hand 

Blind in the dust of the highway. 

Power and gold and fame denied, 
Love laughs glad in the paths aside. 



215 



THE SACRIFICE OF NABLA 

By Seumas MacManus 

Author of " Through the Turf Smoke '," " ' Twas in Dhroll Donegal" etc. 



I. 

OF all the young girls on our island of Tory there was not one 
better liked than Nabla. She was mild, and she was gentle, 
and the lady was born in her. The hair of her was as black 
as a crow's wing, and it fell over her to the waist like a shower. In 
her sweet red cheeks there were two dimples around which smiles 
played like the sunshine round the whirlpools of Gort. I can see her 
in her little red bodice, and striped petticoat, and with bare feet and 
ankles tripping over the island of a morning down to Port-na-tharov 
to meet her father coming in off a trip, or young Torloch back from 
the fishing grounds; for she looked a picture, and a pretty one; 
and wherever Nabla O'Boyle went, moreover, she brought sunshine 
and she brought peace. In particular, wonderful was the influence 
she had over the wildest and roughest of our fishermen when the fiery 
drink took them by head and made savages of them. If Nabla O'Boyle 
came and spoke to the wildest of them at his worst, the fierceness and 
savagery melted out of his soul, and he was as meek as a babe in her 
hands. All of them worshipped that child, and the rougher and fiercer 
they were, the surer and the greater was her power over them. 

There was warm love indeed, and strong, between Nabla and young 
Torloch MacGillicher. If there was anyone on the island worthy of 
Nabla, it was Torloch. A fine, manly young fellow Torloch was, who 
had the good wish and good word of every boy that fished with him, 
and of every mother on the island as well. He was a fearless lad as 
ever rode the wave, and had dared death when reckless ones quailed 
more than once, and more than ten times. There were five men on 
the island and eight men, either in England or far upon the ocean, 
who owed it to Torloch MacGillicher that they still lived. 

When her father was gone upon trips in his little trading smack 
Nabla O'Boyle used to remain all alone in their long, low house. But 
once that her father returned he brought her a new mother and a new 
sister from amongst the strangers. Yet with this company Nabla never 
experienced the same quiet happiness that she used to have in the 
house all by herself, or with her father only. Her new mother and 
her new sister did not like her as much as she should have wished them 

216 



The Sacrifice of Nabla 217 

to. And, indeed, Nabla did not, could not, like them as much as she 
prayed to like them. 

The islanders and the strangers do not easily understand one an- 
other anyhow. Nabla could not get at their hearts. They disliked 
Torloch MacGillicher utterly, and did not wish him to come about 
the house, so Nabla had to meet him elsewhere. 

Six months after her father had married again he was killed in his 
own boat by a swinging boom, and Nabla was a desolate child. More 
closely and closely, after, she wanted to cling to Torloch. But her 
new mother did not want Torloch, and she strove her best to keep 
them separate. Nabla and he then met only in secret. Her mother 
sometimes discovered this and scolded Nabla sorely. Nabla listened 
patiently to these scoldings and said back no angry word. But she 
would not, and could not, give up Torloch. 

The three women were surely going to have a sore struggle with 
the world. The price of the smack brought a poor little patch of ground 
that could not give them even a very niggard support. There was 
keen grief for them. But God is good. Not long after, and just as 
Nabla's new mother had brought two babes into the world, the little 
school on the island wanted a teacher, and Nabla's step-sister, who 
was named Margaret Dobbin, and who had a fair share of learning, 
was made teacher. By it she could earn about twelve pounds a year, 
which was a great deal to them. 

None of the island boys ever tried to court Margaret. She scorned 
them anyhow, and had smiles only for tradespeople and gentlemen who 
came in from the mainland. These too were the only people her mother 
favored. Margaret had a great falling-out at length with Nabla be- 
cause of a man, a surveyor, who came there wooing Margaret, and 
lodged in their house, and then tried to make love to Nabla. Nabla 
gave him such smart repulses as he deserved, but Margaret got very 
bitter against her because she had (without desiring it even) drawn his 
attentions upon herself. Torloch MacGillicher gave him a great thrash- 
ing for attempting to kiss Nabla. Margaret was grieved over this, and 
poured bitter abuse upon her step-sister. Margaret's mother too helped 
her; whilst Nabla, after trying vainly to show that she was not to 
be blamed, but pitied, bowed her head and took their further up- 
braiding in silence. And from that time forward there was no more 
quiet in her life and no more comfort in her home. It was a home to 
her only in name too. 

People did not wonder then when they saw that the gloom-cloud had 
settled upon Nabla, and that for many months she went about down- 
cast and silent. Everyone, of course, said that it was the unhappiness 
of her home-life which caused this, and everyone heartily pitied poor 
Nabla. No one cared to speak to her on the subject, though, for she 
discouraged them if they only approached it. 



218 The Sacrifice of Nabla 

But at length, in the very anguish of our hearts, we discovered 
another reason for her gloom. How it wrung the hearts of every 
soul on the island I will not say, I cannot say. We wished that God 
had blighted our crops or turned the herring-shoals from our seas, or 
laid on us His awful hand in any other terrible form than this. Pad- 
raig Mor, who was within a breath of five score, remembered such an 
affliction happen just once before on the island: and that was almost 
four score years before. 

Of all days of the year, on a Good Friday morning the dread whis- 
per passed over the island that Nabla O'Boyle had fallen ! 

That whisper chilled the hearts of the men, and caused their heads 
to droop. But it was on the women it put sorest. They were loud, 
loud, in their lamentations; and many of them keened as they might 
for the dead, only far wilder and more heart-rendingly. To God they 
wished it was only dead she was. It was feared that some of the women 
ones who were related to Nabla O'Boyle would lose their wits; so 
deep, and so loud, and so uncontrollable was their grief. 

Except Ailly Haraghy, the midwife, none went in or out of the 
house of woe those days. None dared to, none could bear to. It was 
good fortune from God, for the child, that it died. Ailly Haraghy 
brought in the coffin, and brought it out again with its burden. And 
the men buried it without speaking a word. 

II. 

FOR all the island that was a black Easter Sunday. And for one 
family black, black. 

Nabla walked out to mass, to our surprise. She walked between 
her mother and her sister. The heads of all three were low that day. 
Nabla's face was almost completely hidden, she drew her black shawl 
so far over her head. People pitied Margaret, the mother, and Mar- 
garet, the sister, no doubt, but their melting pity was for Nabla O'Boyle. 
She that they would raise up to the skies was down, down in the dust 
down, never, nevermore, to rise again ! People walked a long distance 
off them. The grief was big at their hearts as they saw poor Nabla 
trudge onward with a step that was weary and slow because of a weary 
heart. No one blamed her, none said a bitter word, none a word of 
reproach. It was pity, pity, pity. 

That day, in the little thatched chapel, the prayers were muttered 
louder and more thickly mingled with sighs than ever they had been 
for many years. The priest's own steps, when he came out, were fal- 
tering, and he had to stop to gather breath and strength when half-way 
up the altar-steps. It took him a long, long time to toil through the 
mass on that Easter Sunday. And when at length he had finished the 
mass and turned to address the people, he looked a long time upon 



The Sacrifice of Nabla 219 

the ground at his feet, first. Then three times he raised his eyes and 
attempted to look his people in the face and to speak; and the third 
time he cried out, " God !" and the tears burst from him, and he 
turned and fell across the altar, with his face flat upon it and his 
whole body shaking with sobs. And in the same moment there went 
up one wail from hundreds of hearts. All the women under the roof 
broke down, and, hanging their heads, wept salt tears. Rough hands, 
now tender, bore out poor Nabla O'Boyle; and the two Margarets, 
weeping, bent over her form without and watched her back to life 
again. 

At noon next day the islanders gathered gloomily to Port-na-tharov. 
The two Margarets led down Nabla. Peadar, the Chief, in a stern voice 
ordered his own boat to be launched, and it was done. Nabla was helped 
into it and helped on to the bows, where she sat down in a heap, like. 
It was Peadar, the Chief, who helped her. He stepped out of the boat 
again. There was a heavy silence on all there. Peadar's brows were 
gathered. He fixed his gray eye upon the men, where they stood 
grouped backward and upward from the water-edge. They shrank 
back when they found his eye bent on them. He said, " Padraig 
Ruadh, and Connal Coyle, and Shan Mor, and Brian Sweeney, take 
the oars. And, John Haraghey, take you the rudder." 

Many breasts felt relieved. But there was no move in response to 
Peadar's order for several moments. The people looked at the young 
men for all of them were young who were spoken to. At length 
Shan Mor did move. A dogged look grew over his features and he 
deliberately walked back to the rear of the men. Padraig Mor and 
John Haraghey, who stood well to the front, walked back also. 

Peadar's look grew darker and wrathful. He walked up and 
through the crowd, and stood beside Shan Mor. He put a hand on 
Shan's shoulder, looking him in the eye, and said simply, " Obey, Shan 
Mor!" There was a hard ring in his voice. Shan Mor walked down 
and into the boat and took the aft oar. The other four filed slowly 
after Shan and took each his position. Peadar, the Chief, gave the 
boat a shove off. A subdued sigh from the hearts of all went up. Some 
knelt down to pray, some turned away and gazed inland; almost all 
wept. Nabla O'Boyle, in the bow of the boat, bent lower her head as 
she was borne away from the island on which she had been born and 
reared, and which she had never before left borne away from Tory; 
all knew instinctively she herself knew that the crime had earned 
its punishment, everlasting exile. 

Until they reached the mainland no word was spoken. They ran 
the boat into a quiet bay and grounded it on a gravelly beach. Brian 
Sweeney and Padraig Ruadh helped Nabla ashore. When Nabla stood 
on the dry land she half turned her head to them, but her eyes were 



220 The Sacrifice of Nabla 

on the ground. She said lowly, " Boys, good-by !" Two of the boys 
muttered " Good-by ! and God be with ye, Nabla," and the other 
two could not say anything. Nabla walked straight inland; when she 
reached the top of a sandhill she turned to look. But the boys were 
still standing as she had left them, gazing after her. So she hurriedly 
turned again and disappeared behind the knowe. Then the boys went 
into the boat and rowed back to Tory without speaking a word. 

Torloch MacGillicher was away from Tory. He had joined a 
Derry trading-boat some months before. He had said he wanted to 
make a little money in order to marry Nabla. It soon crept out now 
that it was Torloch whom Margaret, Nabla's step-mother, cursed. And 
the island men, because they had loved him, were all the fiercer against 
him. They said if he ever dared to pollute the island with his foot, 
his life-blood would stain the stones where he landed. And they swore 
to take swift vengeance upon him wherever they should meet him and 
whenever they should meet him. 

Poor Nabla wandered far and far inland, seeking some place where 
rumor should not find her. But it was vain, for the whisper of the 
crime had swept before her. She wandered about and about for weary 
weeks, fed and lodged by the charitable. But at length, in Derahcrk, 
she had a little hut assigned to her. There she lived, and supported 
herself partly by doing a little sewing and a little knitting, but chiefly 
by working in the fields with the spade or the rake for everyone who 
could afford to give her a day's employment and pay her a sixpence 
therefor. 

After some months Torloch appeared at Ballyness. He said he 
wanted to be rowed off to Tory. The people looked queerly at him 
and shook their heads. "I know, I know," Torloch cried, "I know 
why this is. God ! I am innocent, innocent. I want to go to Tory 
to swear to them my innocence." 

"If you go to Tory," they said, " you will be a corpse before you 
have got time to swear. We will not row you out." 

Frantically, Torloch went wandering in search of Nabla. But 
Nabla had just heard that Torloch was accused and cursed upon Tory. 
She came to Ballyness on the day after Torloch had left it. She 
wanted to meet some Tory men, though shame consumed her at the 
thought. And on that day a Tory boat came in. She went to the 
shore and beckoned to the men to follow her. She led them to a 
sheltered cove. She there went on her knees and called God to witness 
that Torloch MacGillicher was as innocent of crime towards her as the 
babe unborn. " Go back to Tory," she said. " Tell the people this. 
Send word what they say." Near Ballyness she stayed for three days 
till a reply came. The reply only was,- "It is better for Torloch 
MacGillicher not to come near Tory." 



The Sacrifice of Nabla 221 

As Nabla dragged herself inland again the burden that weighted 
her shoulders was now greater, she thought, than she could bear. And 
she went on her two knees in the middle of the moor of Galassach and 
asked God to relieve her in any way any way. 

When she reached her hut she heard that Torloch MacG-illicher 
was in the neighborhood and was awaiting her return. She sent a 
messenger to him to inform him why she had gone to Ballyness, and 
to tell him of the result. And she said, " Tell him, tell him, that I 
cannot, cannot see him." 

But he tried to force his way to see her. She saw him come with 
her messenger, Mary Coll, towards her little house. She went to the 
door and cried, " For God's sake, and for mine, Torloch MacGillicher. 
do not come here, do not speak to me." Then she closed the door, and 
Torloch had to go away with a bent head. 

But Torloch did not leave the place. He hired with Peter Mac- 
Laughlin, of Berries, in order to stay near Nabla and to watch over her 
without hurting her feelings by importunity. 

III. 

FOR four years Nabla O'Boyle lived there her lonely and melan- 
choly life. She had the pity and the sympathy of the neighbors; but 
this only hurt her the more. Torloch had remained all the time, hired 
to one man or another in the district. He never thrust his solicitous 
attentions on her, but the thought of Nabla was not one day out of his 
mind in all the weary time from first he came there. And he had no 
intention, no thought, of quitting the place. But, instead, he was as 
firmly determined now, as ever, to remain while Nabla remained, and 
to remove if she removed, and follow her wherever she would go. 

But one day, after Nabla had finished her fourth year of exile, a 
boat from Tory came into Ballyness. It was manned by Padraig 
Buadh, and Connal Coyle, and Shan Mor, and Brian Sweeney, and 
John Haraghey. When they had their boat secured they started di- 
rectly inland with much speed. They inquired for Nabla O'Boyle as 
they went, and being directed, reached her hut. They burst into it, to 
Nabla's utter surprise, as she sat by a scanty fire, knitting. 

" Oh Nabla ! Nabla !" they shouted, with ringing tones, " we are 
come to bring you back to Tory ! All Tory waits you ! All is known, 
known; and the prayers that are put up to God to bless you all over 
the island sound like a wind in a forest. Your step-mother is gone, 
and so is her daughter. Your father's two children are with us." 

Nabla stared at them wildly for a while. Then she gave a scream, 
and fell from her seat. They raised her up again, and in a few mo- 
ments the dazedness left her. She dropped upon her knees and prayed 
long and fervently. The boys remained outside the door while she 



222 Southern Moonlight. Home- Sick 

did so. When she had finished she said, " Tell Torloch." She directed 
them where they would find him. 

Both Torloch and Nabla were rowed off from Ballyness next morn- 
ing rowed by the same men and in the same boat that brought her 
into exile. Five other boats that had come out from Tory for the 
purpose escorted them home. Torloch and Nabla clasped hands in the 
bow of their boat; the bright sunshine of a June morning was on the 
waters and on their faces as they went. And there was the sunshine 
of June in both their hearts too. 

As they came into Port-na-tharov the islanders, men and women and 
children, crowded at the water's edge. The women raised a prayer, and 
Torloch and Nabla, with bent heads, joined. When they stepped upon 
the island the women embraced Nabla frantically and wept upon her 
shoulder, and the men wrung young Torloch's hand. 

That evening they heard all about the death of Ailly Haraghey, and 
her confession that young Margaret Dobbin having given birth to a 
child, Nabla, to save the bread-winner, the one upon whose earnings 
her father's two babes depended for life, had consented to take the 
terrible odium, and undergo shame unspeakable and awful exile. The 
two Margarets had been taken to Derry and put upon a ship bound for 
Liverpool, their former home. But the children had been kept, and 
were there to greet Nabla. 

And with her and Torloch they had a happy home. 



SOUTHERN MOONLIGHT 

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD 

ELLOW moon of the south, maiden of midnight glory, 
With your tenuous veil of orient amber spun, 
Ah, but you tell me still the same love-memoried story 
Of the asphodelian slopes, and the young Endymion. 



M 



HOME-SICK 

BY CORA A. MATSON DOLSON 

NIGHT at the station. From the clicking keys, 
The dull, drear prairie wind that sweeps the pane, 
He shuts his eyes, to hear the home-yard bees, 
And twittering of sparrows in the rain. 



ISCHIA: A TALE AND A TOUR 

By Maua Howe 

Author of "A Newport Aquarelle" 



CASAMICCIOLA, ISLAND OF ISCHIA, July 10, 1898. 

OUE coming to this volcanic islet tossed up out of the sea an 
aeon ago, still warm with the earth's vital heat was due to 
chance, like most things that are worth while. We had driven 
over that morning from Sorrento to Castellammare through odorous 
orange and lemon groves, and were so filled with the beauty of land 
and sea that going to any city, even our Kome, seemed a waste of life. 
We reluctantly boarded the crowded train for Naples. In the same 
carriage were a mercante di campagna and his daughter, the most 
lovely Italian girl I ever saw. Her hair clustered in purple, shadowed 
masses, like bunches of grapes, about her perfect face ; her complexion 
was golden and red no pink-and-white prettiness, but a rich and memo- 
rable beauty. They had left home early; to have more time in the 
city, they ate their breakfast of Bologna sausage, bread, and garlic 
on the train. They were so friendly that we forgave them everything 
even their fourteen bundles, which entirely filled the luggage rack 
even their garlic ! The father opened the conversation. 

" My son, he is in America ; he worked on the Brooklyner Bridger ; 
you have seen it, yes?" 

" We have seen it many times ; we have even crossed it." 
This brought us all very near together. Putting his hand into his 
pocket the mercante di campagna brought out a fistful of rice, which 
he presented to me. 

" Behold a sample of the rice I am taking to Naples to sell." 
Not knowing exactly what else to do with it, I tied the rice in a 
corner of my pocket-handkerchief. He next handed me the Corriere 
di Napoli, two days old. The first thing in the newspaper that caught 
my eye was an advertisement of the Societa Napoletana di Navigazione 
a Vapore. " The steamer for Ischia sails at eleven o'clock ; return 
tickets, eight francs." 

We were due in Naples at ten, the train for Rome left at three in 
the afternoon ! Five hours in Naples, which has for us but three re- 
sources the museum, the aquarium, the antiquarians ! It was the day 
of Sts. Peter and Paul, a national holiday, that meant the museum would 
be closed. We know every fish in the great aquarium, the finest in the 
world. Do we not always go there ? Did we not spend two hours there 

223 



224 Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 

on our way down and pay to see the awful octopus fed, and to receive a 
shock from the electric fish ? A visit to the antiquarians for some varie- 
ties of junk even more enticing that those of our Eoman haunts would 
cost us more than eight francs. 

Ischia ! The name set a deep chord of memory vibrating. Oh 
Edward Lear, Edward Lear, you are responsible for many vagarious 
wanderings ! I could think of nothing but the picture in your " Non- 
sense Book" of the old person of Ischia. Is he still growing friskier 
and friskier ? dancing jigs, eating figs ? 

" Have you ever been to Ischia ?" I asked the mercante di cam- 
pagna. 

" Frankly, no, the sea incommodes me too much to make the voyage, 
but I have a brother who drives a cab at Casamicciola. The Signori 
should not fail to visit the island." 

The girl smiled encouragement. " This is just the season for the 
baths," she said; "they are miraculous for rheumatism, gout, every 
kind of lameness. When they went there Olivetta, the wife of my 
Uncle Ercole, could not walk at all adesso, core com'un diabolo 
(now she runs like the devil)." 

"Pur troppo (altogether too much) !" grumbled the mercante, just 
like any other brother-in-law ! 

" The Signori will employ my Uncle Ercole ? He drives a piebald 
horse. They will give the uncle and aunt tanti saluti from me?" the 
beauty persisted. Her influence, combined with Lear's, was too strong 
to resist. Borne is always there ; it was now or never for Ischia ! 

We caught the little steamer, which carried us steadily enough 
across the Bay of Naples. The shores slid by a living panorama of 
sapphire and emerald. Fishing-smacks with slanting lateen sails, col- 
ored, discolored, one with a picture of Maria Stella del Maris painted 
upon it, flitted by us before the light breeze. The steamer has at some 
period been a private yacht. Though her brasses are neglected and her 
deck less like polished satin than in her palmy days, she still has a sport- 
ing, rakish air, in keeping with our escapade! We passed Procida, a 
shining isle, where I was half tempted to land and search for the en- 
chanted princess who must inhabit it ! 

We landed at Casamicciola in a small boat. The patient women 
waiting on the quay took our trunks on their heads ; the cabmen mobbed 
us, politely trying to wrest our hand-bags from us. " Ercolc !" cried J. 
" Is Ercole, he who drives a piebald horse, among you?" 

"Ecco mi qua, Signor MarcJiese (behold me here, Lord Marquis) !" 
Ercole (Hercules) scarcely looks his part; he is small and weazened, 
but he lias the merry eyes of his brother, the mercante di campagna, 
while his laugh oddly recalls his lovely niece's. From the beginning 
Ercole took and kept possession of us. " First to the Piccola Senti- 



Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 225 

nella," he announced. The piebald breasted the steep hill at a sharp 
pace. Ten minutes' climb brought us to the Hotel of the Small Senti- 
nel, a low building with a roof of light, corrugated iron. Most of the 
hotels in Southern Italy are old palaces or monasteries, heavily built 
of stone or stucco. Madame Dombre, the proprietress (she is an 
Englishwoman and makes us exceedingly comfortable), says that all 
the buildings put up since the earthquake have been constructed under 
government supervision and are lightly built, like the hotel. Every- 
thing here dates from the earthquake. Ercole says such a thing took 
place before the terramoto, or so many years after it. Madame Dom- 
bre', whose daughter was killed, speaks as if it happened yesterday. 

" There was a concert in the dining-room of our hotel at the time ; 
it was on the 28th of July, 1883, mid-season, you know; the house 
was full. There came a dreadful rumbling noise. The house shook 
once, twice, sideways, and then came crashing down in a ruined heap. 
The pianist at the piano, the singer with the song on her lips, were 
dashed into Purgatory without an instant's warning! Out of a popu- 
lation of thirty-five hundred, seventeen hundred persons perished in the 
earthquake." 

Since that time Casamicciola has been almost deserted by foreigners, 
who are now just beginning to return ; a few more come each year. 

The morning after our arrival Ercole drove me, willy nilly, to the 
Baths. Somehow he had divined the heel of Achilles my bicycle 
ankle. The smiling medico agreed with him that the treatment was 
"indicated," and forthwith delivered me over into the hands of Oli- 
vetta she who once was lame and now runs like a devil. The Baths 
are large, not so smartly appointed as some of the German establish- 
ments, such as Homburg or Ems, but having a certain classical flavor 
of architecture, pleasantly suggestive of the old Greek inhabitants who 
were driven away from the island (they called it Pithecusa) in the fifth 
century B.C. by the fearful eruptions of Mt. Epomeo. Olivetta led me 
to a small marble room, put me in a comfortable chair, placed the offend- 
ing ankle on a bench, and bade me " abbia pazienza (have patience)" 
while she went to get the " fango." In five minutes she returned bring- 
ing a jar full of liquid gray clay, very like what sculptors use. 

" Guardi, questo fango viene propria caldo della viscera della terra 
(observe, this mud comes hot from the entrails of the earth)." The 
giant Typhceus, transfixed by Zeus's thunderbolt, lies chained under 
the island, the roar of the earthquake is his voice, the lava flood his 
tears. You may believe it or not : I do not find it difficult to accept ! 
Poor old giant, I feel sorry for him, reduced to tending hospital fires, 
to warming up poultices for the gouty ! 

Olivetta built a sort of mould of hot clay wherein the foot was 
comfortably coddled for thirty minutes. She next gave it a hot douche 

VOL. LXXIV. 8 



226 Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 

for five minutes, then left me to meditate for another thirty minutes 
in a warm mineral bath which smelt of hot flatirons. 

The serious business of the day over, we were free to explore the 
country. Ercole and the piebald took us for a nineteen-mile drive 
around the island, which rises sharply from the sea to its highest point, 
Mt. Epomeo. The vineyards wrap Ischia from sea-shore to mountain 
peak in a shimmering screen of green. The vines hang from tree to tree, 
making a leafy roof overhead and green, sun-pierced walls to the long 
alleys where the innumerable classic bunches grow. The grapes are still 
small and immature, but exquisite in form and color. In October, the 
season of the vintage, this must be the most beautiful place on earth. 
Here one understands why the Koman soldiers in Britain, when they 
first saw the Kentish hop-vines, thought they had found the nearest 
thing to the grape the savage northland produced. In their efforts to 
make wine from hops they produced the first beer made in England. 

On our way home we met a pair of boys driving a donkey laden 
with the coarse gray pottery which has been made here since the days of 
the Romans. The creta, gray clay from which it is made, looks very 
like the mud used at the Stabilimento. We stopped to examine the 
mugs, the jugs, the donkey, and his astonishing garments. 

"Behold, Madama, I'asino del Colonello!" said Ercole. 

"Who is the Colonel?" 

" Un gran signore, un Inglese. He comes here every year for the 
baths." 

" What can a ' gran signore' do with this poor little animal ?" 

" He protects it. When he first saw this donkey the poor beast, 
being much afflicted with sores, was sadly tormented by flies. The 
Colonello, taking pity upon it, provided pantaloons two pair, a pair 
for the hind legs, a pair for the fore legs, as you perceive. He also 
pays these boys two francs a month to treat the creature well; he pro- 
vides petroleum to bathe its sores, and now and again orders it a sea- 
bath. It is his idea. He may be right. How do I know? With re- 
spect, the soul of his grandmother may have entered the body of that 
ass." 

A little farther on Ercole drew up the piebald again. 

" Behold other of the Colonello's beneficiaries," he said. Two tiny 
dwarfs saluted us, asking with Ischian gentleness for alms. There 
was no whine to their voices, no consciousness of degradation, nothing 
of that brazen effrontery of the Neapolitan beggar, which makes one 
despair for the regeneration of the Neapolitan submerged tenth! 

" Sono buoni ed onesti (they are good and honest)," said Ercole, 
adding a soldo from his own pocket to what J. gave them. 

"They are called Pasquale and Eestituta. It is only a few years 
that they have been obliged to beg. Till then they worked at their trades 



Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 227 

he at brick-making, she at straw-braiding; they are past working now. 
They are not very old, b^t such people have little vigor. I remember 
their wedding. All the town was there, the Sindaco and the school- 
master as well. We all gave something for their housekeeping one a 
goat, one a pair of fowls, one a piece of furniture. If you could have 
seen their little marriage bed, Signora mia, it was like a doll's bed !" 

We drove along for another mile or two, passed the straw factory, 
where we were obliged to buy some ugly fans out of respect to Ercole's 
views. On the Marina he stopped again to let us see " il fungo" a 
big, mushroom-shaped rock in the sea. The setting sun touched Pro- 
cida into an unearthly beauty, it shone like the golden city of Jeru- 
salem. Some day I must go to Procida ! 

" There is Teodora !" said Ercole, pointing with his whip to a 
group of sailors sitting on the bottom of an overturned boat. In the 
centre sat a strange figure mending a net. 

" You see that old woman sewing ? She is a deaf-mute, she be- 
lieves she is a man. If it were true it would be miraculous, perche ha 
fato una figlia (because she has made a daughter). She avoids all 
women, spends her time with the fishermen. As she cannot talk and 
mends their nets, they do not object to her company." 

Teodora laid down the long, black cigar she was smoking and took 
off her hat to us. Save for a short, dark skirt she was dressed like a 
man. 

" It is against the law for a woman to wear pantaloons/' Ercole 
explained. 

" But not for asses or men ?" 

Ercole laughed immoderately part of his pleasant flattery. 

We made the ascent of Mount Epomeo ; after completing the course 
of eleven baths, we wished to put to the test what they had done for my 
ankle. We drove to Fontana, taking our luncheon with us why do 
things taste best out of a basket? We left Ercole and the piebald at 
the inn and climbed to the summit of the extinct volcano, where there 
is a curious hermitage dedicated to St. Nicola cut out of the volcanic- 
tufa rock. The view from here is not so fine as it is half way up the 
mountain. It is rather too much like looking down upon a dissected 
map, but it does give one a wonderful geographical sensation, fixes the 
relations between the Sorrentine peninsula, Vesuvius, the islands of the 
Sirens, Capri, the promontory of Circeo (where Circe lived), Procida 
the golden, and the other points of this earthly paradise between Terra- 
cina on the north and the Punta di Campanella en the south. We were 
helped to orient ourselves by Lucia, a " lady guide," who joined us 
half way up the mountain. She is a handsome old woman with wild 
white hair, bright blue eyes, and a shrewd peasant face. She hailed 
me at sight as an American. 



228 Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 

" How do you know that I am not English ?" I asked. 

" I can always recognize the Americani, Signora mia." 

" By what sign do you know us ?" I asked. 

" By the expression of the countenance." 

When I first came to Italy I should have scoffed at this, now I have 
lived away from home so long that I too recognize the American ex- 
pression, nervous, sensitive, masterful, the Look Dominant! 

" Se vede Procida, La Spagna, ed io vedo te!" Lucia crooned a 
stave of the old Neapolitan song, " Funicula Funicule" in a cracked 
voice. 

" Yes, yes, I know both Americani ed Inglesi; my daughter's hus- 
band is an Inglese." 

" Where did she meet him ?" 

"Here on Mount Epomeo, where else? Una bella ragazza (she 
was a pretty girl). You may not believe it, Signora, but there is no 
difference between my daughter and me save a matter of fifteen years. 
At fifty she is just what I was; at sixteen she was her mother over 
again. You would not think it, eh ? Well, one can speak about it now 
that one is so old. She was called the most beautiful girl in all Ischia. 
How do I know if it were true? I could not think so, you see, because 
she was myself over again, and I never saw any difference between 
myself and the other girls." 

" I hope your daughter has a good husband." 

" Deo grazie, a good husband yes, yes, a good husband." 

" Who was that pretty girl at the inn down at Fontana ?" J. asked. 

"Bella? quella ragazza? faccia di patate (pretty? that girl? a 
potato face) ! Ai ! if you could have seen my Eva ! The Madonna 
herself was not more beautiful. That girl, the innkeeper's daughter, is 
as awkward as a cow, and she squints, besides, as her mother did be- 
fore her." 

"Non, non," J. protested, " e un bel' pezzo di donna (she is a fine 
piece of a woman)." 

Lucia gave him a keen look. " The Signore should not laugh at the 
poor girl. II buon Deo does not give a handsome face to every woman." 

" Fortunately for the peace of the world, that is true." 

" But the Signore is an artist ? one sees that from his manner of 
looking at things. Well, if the innkeeper's Anna is a pretty girl, call 
me a brutone (big, ugly thing). If my daughter had not been out of 
the common, do you think a rich gentleman would have married her? 
Yes, yes, I am telling you the truth. She does no work; they live in 
a palazzo; my daughter has servants to wait on her; do you believe 
it ? She does not even comb her own hair ! And she has jewels 
such diamonds! For every child she gives him he gives her a great 
pearl, each bigger than the last." 



Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 229 

" How many children have they ?" 

"Ha fatto quattro maschii, e tre femmine (she has made four 
males and three females), all straight and well formed; the youngest 
is Lucia, for the poor old nona (grandmother) at Ischia." 

"Where do they live?" 

She pointed across the sea. "What do I know of foreign coun- 
tries? I am of the island. Here I was born, here I shall die." 

" You must be very proud of your grandchildren." This is always 
a safe remark. 

"Ha ragione, Eccellenza, guardi (you are right, Excellency, ob- 
serve), I am only a poor ignorante, but I made the great matrimonio 
for my daughter. Eva was always here with me, upon the flanks of 
Epomeo, guiding the foreigners; but for me she would be here still, 
as my mother and her mother before her were here. In those days 
before the terramoto many strangers came to Epomeo. From the first 
moment the young Inglese saw the girl he was inamorato. He came 
every day, pretended to sketch the mountain. I knew he was no 
artist. Why, anyone could see he was un gran signore by the way he 
spent his money. One day he asked leave to paint my daughter. I 
said, 'Sense, Signore, you are a rich gentleman, I am only a beggar, 
ma io sono padrona della mia figliola (I am the mistress of my little 
daughter). The day Eva takes a husband he will be padrone. Till 
that time, sense, Signore, ma sono padrona io!' Would you believe it? 
a week from that day Eva and the Inglese were married by the priest 
who married her father and mother and who gave her the holy rite of 
baptism." 

Sing me a song of the wisdom of old women ! 

I was bent upon exploring the hermitage in spite of Lucia. The 
hermit has departed the way of hermits and others, and in his stead 
reigns Orlando, a cross old man, between whom and Lucia there is war 
to the knife. 

" Their Excellencies are not going down without seeing the her- 
mitage?" he whined. 

" Certainly not," J. assured him. 

" Do not go in, it is a dirty hole, and there is nothing to see," 
whispered Lucia, catching me by the sleeve. 

" That silly old woman is tiring out the lady," said Orlando to J. ; 
" drive her away, she is a pest." 

As I put my foot on the lowest step of the rough-hewn rock stair- 
way leading to the hermitage Lucia fell back and said no more. I was 
evidently out of her domain and in the enemy's territory. As she had 
said, there was little to see in the two rooms cut out of the living rock. 
Orlando's bed, a pile of straw, occupied the outer room, the inner cell 
served as his kitchen and larder. He offered bread and wine. We 



Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 

were firm in refusing refreshment, and his feelings were soothed by 
a mancia and by our telling him we should come again and take his 
photograph (our kodak had been forgotten). 

" The next time their Excellencies come they must not let that 
old chiaccerone (gossip) hang on to them. She pesters the travellers 
so with her talk that she frightens them away. Truly you will find 
it set down in the red book of the strangers (Baedeker) that a guide 
is unnecessary, though a few soldi are due to the person living in the 
hermitage, who is ready and able to explain intelligently the view and 
the locality." 

At the foot of the steps Lucia again took us in charge, after an 
exchange of malevolent glances with Orlando. 

" Stragone (big old witch) I" Orlando muttered. 

" Birbacionc (big rogue) !" mumbled Lucia. 

She came down with us as far as the cab. 

"Addio, Eccellence, e mille grade." 

"Addio, Lucia, and thanks to you/' At the turn of the road we 
looked back and saw the strong, bent little old woman leaning against 
the wall waiting to guide the next forestieri who might turn up. 

" Is it true what Lucia tells us about her daughter ?" I asked 
Ercole. 

" Who knows. These old women gossip to amuse strangers. There 
is a new story for every day in the week. We must not believe every- 
thing that we hear." 

Was Ercole jealous too? 

The next time I saw Olivetta she began to chatter about Lucia. 

" She told you about her daughter ? Yes ? It is quite true. The 
girl caught the fancy of a rich milord, and he married her. One 
thing I am sure Lucia did not tell you. Her son-in-law has bought 
her a nice cottage, the best house in Fontana ; he gives her a handsome 
income truly Lucia is rich. But she is avaricious. I ask you, does 
she not look like a beggar ? That is all a comedy ; she has good clothes 
and shoes. Truly, I should not be surprised if when she dies we should 
find that Lucia is the richest woman in Ischia. It is a shame that she 
should ask money from the strangers." 

" Perhaps it is not the money so much as the occupation Lucia 
likes," I suggested. 

" Ma che, she is robbing others who would gladly take her place. 
There is the excellent Orlando; he is my relation. Poor man, he is 
lame and cannot work. As long as Lucia remains there is no chance 
for another guide ; e fina, quella donna (she is a sharp one, that woman) . 
Ask the Colonello ; he can tell you all about Lucia and her daughter." 

The Colonello, protector of the poor and purveyor of pantaloons to 
suffering donkeys, is at this hotel. He is a delightful, warm-blooded 



Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 281 

creature, who cannot be quite comfortable unless everybody else in 
sight even an ass is comfortable too. Like the others, he had a 
great deal to say about Lucia ; of all the personages we have met the 
place is full of personages ! she seems to be the most marked. 

" Gad, sir, the old woman is right," said the Colonel. " The day 
she goes out of business she will go to pieces. Why should she give up 
her job because her daughter has married into another sphere? I'm 
d d if I don't like her spirit !" 

" What is the daughter like ?" I asked. 

" She is a good sort," said the Colonel. " When her husband took 
her to his mother's house, what do you suppose they did with her? 
Sent her to school, had her taught like a child. She learned many 
things, how to talk small talk, how to behave at table, how to dress, 
and all the rest of it. When they thought she had learned enough she 
came home to her husband. He gave a great dinner to introduce her 
to his family oh, they all acted sensibly. The bride behaved very 
nicely and quietly. They all liked her for her pretty manners (you 
know the people hereabouts have excellent manners, better than half 
the aristocracy at home, I tell them) as well as for her remarkable 
beauty; she must have been worth seeing in those days. After the 
dinner was over and the guests had left the dining-room the husband, 
coming back for something, found his wife going round the table 
collecting the ends of the cigars the men had left on their plates. 

"'What on earth do you want with those nasty things?' he asked. 

" ' To send them to my poor old father at Ischia/ 

" She had been in the habit of picking up the ends of the travellers' 
cigars for the old man. Do you wonder that she has made a good wife 
and mother? I tell you she has a good heart. If a woman has that, 
what else matters ?" 

When we made our second trip to Epomeo, to keep faith with Or- 
lando, Lucia was nowhere visible; we made the ascent without her. 
Orlando held undisputed possession of Epomeo. 

"Where is your friend Lucia?" we asked. 

He fairly spluttered, " Una vecchiarella stupida, senza educatione 
(a stupid old woman without education) ! Do you know what I be- 
lieve? I believe that her daughter and son-in-law are in Ischia. 
When they are on the island Lucia sits all day in her window dressed 
in her Sunday clothes. To see her you would never fancy that she 
was the guide to Mount Epomeo not that there is any need of a guide, 
as you yourselves perceive." 

On our way through Fontana we passed a neat cottage, caught a 
whiff of fragrance of oleanders in the garden, a glimpse of an old 
woman sitting bolt upright in an armchair, a flash from her sharp 
blue eyes. It was Lucia, our little old guide, her wild hair neatly 



232 Ischia: A Tale and a Tour 

coifed by a peasant cap ; she sat up as if she were sitting for her photo- 
graph stiff, uncomfortable, wretched in her finery. 

That night at the hotel an interesting couple who had arrived since 
the morning sat opposite to us at dinner a tall, silent Englishman who 
looked as if he might have been in the army, and a grave, handsome 
woman of fifty. She has a certain noble amplitude of brow, a width 
between the eyes, a calm quality of face and figure, very restful in con- 
trast to some giddy young ladies of her age who sit near us. She speaks 
English with a slight accent. We made acquaintance over the mustard, 
which we both prefer a V Anglais. The gentleman spoke of Ischia and 
the adjoining country with such familiarity that I asked him about my 
enchanted island, Procida. 

" It is such an ideal-looking place, I want to go there ! it must be 
inhabited by beautiful, rose-colored maidens/' I said. 

He looked at his wife as he answered me. 

" Ischia is the island for handsome women," he said. " Procida 
is best seen as you have seen it, from a distance. It is the place where 
the Italian convicts are sent." 

Was not that a sad pricking of a rainbow bubble ? His next words 
atoned for that shattered illusion : they were addressed to his wife. 

" Eva, my dear," he said, " let me give you a little of this vino di 
paese (wine of the country). It comes from the vigna on Monte 
Epomeo ; it is the kind you used to like when you were a girl." 

At the name Eva I looked at the Colonello, who was devouring green 
figs at the end of the table. He answered my questioning look by one 
of acquiescence. 

Orlando was right ! Lucia's daughter, and the husband of Lucia's 
daughter, had come to Ischia to see Lucia! 

" May I trouble you to hand me that other plate of figs ?" said 
the Colonello. " The figs of Ischia are the finest in the world. I 
sometimes wonder how many figs a man may eat and live." 

Suddenly a light dawned upon me ! The Colonello is undoubtedly 
the " Old Person of Ischia." On the flanks of Epomea we had looked for 
him, in the sun-pierced alleys of Ischian vineyards, among the sailors 
on the Marina, even in the halls of the Stabilimento our quest, the 
magnet that drew us out of the path of duty (that led back to Rome 
and the studio), the hero of Lear's verse. He was here, sleeping under 
the same roof, sitting at the same table ! Have not we ourselves seen 
him eat scores, possibly hundreds, of figs? If we could postpone our 
return to Rome, we should doubtless get up into the thousands, for : 

" There v/as an old person of Ischia, 
Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier. 

He danced hornpipes and jigs, 

And ate thousands of figs, 
This lively old person of Ischia." 




u 



NDER the great cathedral of the sky, 

Far down the pillared aisles of ash and pine, 
I join the prayer of poppies bended low, 
And count the beaded rosary of the vine. 



A transept of blue heaven overhead, 

A choir of birds half hid in copse and scar, 

My worship is the pleading of the pine, 
The burning adoration of a star. 

The pleading of the pine that reaches up 

With outstretched arms, confiding as a child 

The trees, are they not born into the faith 

That when the sun has shined, then God has smiled ? 

The joyous lark, high-mounted on his song, 
Has lifted me in rapture from the sod ; 

And though I tarry, humble in the grass, 
I am a little while the guest of God ! 

And like this untaught winged heart of song, 

Sweeter for liberty, the breezes fill 
The vale with holy incense of the flowers, 

And consecrate the altar of the hill. 

The sunlit altar of the hill, far up 

The pillared aisles of arching ash and pine, 

Where Nature offers daily sacrifice, 

And Night and Day keep watch before her shrine. 

And now, at eve, the priestly hour has donned 
A purple vestment for the vesper mass ; 

The stars have lit the tapers of the dew, 

And hare and lark are kneeling in the grass. 

Throstles intone the offertory note, 

And lo ! upon the altar-hill of gray, 
A blood-red host the sacrificial Sun 

The immolation of a dying day ! 

238 



APPENDIX B 

By Vincent Harper 



TO the veranda of two cottages the coming of Mrs. Burton's invi- 
tation brought light. Mrs. Burton's invitations were always at 
a premium, and just now to the girl in the hammock and the 
deeps, on the veranda of " The Barnacle" out on the point, the little, 
slate-colored note seemed the " way out," which, in the dismal watches 
of that woful night, she had despaired of finding. What a godsend 
just now three weeks on Commodore Burton's yacht ! Not that she 
could forget that she could never do! But this providential happy 
thought of the Burtons would enable her to leave Bar Harbor for three 
weeks that is, forever, for at the end of three weeks the season would 
be so nearly over that she could easily find some excuse for not re- 
turning. 

Thank goodness, she need not endure seeing him nor her! as 
she would have had to do had she stopped at Bar Harbor, where, unlike 
Newport, one just has to meet everybody daily. Now she could at 
least avoid the horror of that daily meeting. 

After what had occurred last night nothing could ever matter again, 
of course, but by deliberately going away with a jolly party on the 
Day Off she would give him to understand that her happiness was 
not his to make or mar at his own sweet will, as he evidently fancied 
that it was. And oh, what rapture there was in the thought that now 
she would not have to see her again ! Yes, she would accept Mrs. 
Burton's invitation by all means and yet she sat in the hammock 
for some time, looking wistfully out to sea, and when finally she rose 
to go into the house to write her acceptance there seemed to be the 
least little suspicion of moisture on her long lashes and the trace of 
a tremor about her lips. But it was with almost vindictive exaltation 
that she ran up to her room and wrote : 

" THE BARNACLE. 

" MT DEAR MBS. BUBTON: Yes, yes, yes a thousand times 
yes; and it was just lovely of you to think of me. Mamma is 
delighted at the thought of me getting away, for I am far 
from well, and you will never know, my dear Mrs. Burton, 
how very glad I am to be able to leave Bar Harbor just now 
for a certain reason. Yes, of course, I can get ready by to- 
morrow afteraoon this afternoon would suit me better, for I 

234 



Appendix B 235 

just dread the affair at the Casino to-night. Thanking you 
with all my heart, and again assuring you that your .^ndness 
comes like an answer to prayer, I am, my dear Mrs. Burton, 
with kind regards to Mr. Burton and love to Hilda, devotedly 
yours, " MURIEL ACTON. 

" Tuesday, August 2." 

Meanwhile on the veranda of " Hurricane Hall," the rambling 
bachelor bungalow up on the hill, of whose revels in the wee small 
hours no end of lurid tales were told, sat a gentleman in tennis togs 
with a little, slate-colored note in his hand and a glimmer of light 
breaking through the abysmal gloom which had clouded his handsome, 
boyish, frank, and somewhat conceited face. Puffing meditatively at 
his briar, the providential character of the invitation became clear to 
his mind. 

Deucedly decent of the Burtons, he thought, to take him up in 
this way, especially after the stories that some of the old women 
were circulating about the gambling at " Hurricane Hall," just a 
little dollar-limit affair when some of the '04 boys were up, and what 
a blooming lucky idea it was to carry him off just now, when he was 
about to be ground between a suddenly developed condition that made 
it impossible for him to stay at Bar Harbor, and the paternal deaf- 
ness to his cry of "please remit," which made it equally impossible 
for him to leave ! 

After what had occurred last night life at its best would be a hollow 
mockery, but, by the lord Harry! she should not get an inkling of 
the true cause of his despair no, not after the way she had thrown him 
over! By deliberately going with the jolly set the Burtons always 
had on the Day Off she would be given to understand that he was not 
the sort of man to be toyed with by a shallow summer girl. And then 
too he had gone a bit too far, perhaps, in playing that insufferable 
Miss Brunt against her last night. Yes, Bar Harbor had become de- 
cidedly too hot to stay in and, as Pater had evidently heard about 
that absurd little dollar-limit racket, and ignored his importunings 
by wire, this happy thought of the Burtons came like a dispensation 
but ! Time after time as he rose to go into the smoking-room to write 
his acceptance the thought of her made him sit down again, and he 
yielded to the luxury of torture that lay in the thought that in leaving 
her he was leaving all that life had in it of joy and purpose. He had 
come to Mt. Desert with his Harvard honors thick upon him, and she 
had met him at the threshold of life like the dawning of a glorious 
morning of hope and work and triumph and now? But, no, she had 
trifled with him, flung him aside, and if she had ruined his life, she 
should not have the added satisfaction of knowing it. So he knocked 
the ashes out of his pipe, whistled to his sleeping Irish terrier, and, 



236 Appendix B 

followed by that sympathizer, hurried with grim pleasure into the 
smoking-room, where he dashed off the following note : 

" HURRICANE HALL. 

" MY DEAR MBS. BURTON : Yes, yes and a thousand thanks. 
And it's awfully good of you, don't you know, to remember 
me, since I have been here three weeks and have not called at 
' The Anchorage' but you always were forgiving ; and, do you 
know, your forgiveness is not the only ' divine' feature in your 
kind invitation, for just now it conies like a special providence. 
There is a certain reason why I should want to get away from 
here, but until your thoughtfulness suggested this delightful 
way, I could see no other in which I could accomplish it; so 
once more thanks. Of course I can get ready to start by to- 
morrow in fact this afternoon would suit me better, for, 
between ourselves, I don't look forward to the affair at the 
Casino this evening with very much pleasure. I am not at 
all well, and I know the cruise will do me no end of good. 

" With kind regards to the Commodore and yourself, I am 
yours very sincerely, " HERBERT F. WEIGHT. 

" Tuesday, August 2." 

With this note in his pocket Wright sauntered down towards the 
tennis-courts, where he hoped to get an opportunity to remove the 
impression which he only too rightly feared that his barefaced de- 
votion on the previous evening had left on the mind of Miss Brunt, 
4 a mind conscious to itself of charms to which the obtuse male intellect 
had been obtuse, lo, these many summers until last night. 

On the road Wright fell in with the Actons' groom, a solemn young 
Englishman whom the exigencies of a rapidly developing campaign 
had driven Wright to impress into his Secret Service and Intelligence 
Department. Yes, Peake was going that way, and would be glad to see 
that Mrs. Burton got his note thank you, sir; and Wright proceeded 
to tennis and the enlightenment of Miss Brunt. 

On the broad veranda of " The Anchorage" Mrs. Burton and a stout, 
middle-aged gentleman sat chatting, while lost in the wicker depths of 
a Brighton chair another man, younger and of a philosophic cast, 
dreamed, listened, and spoke not. 

" Then, Doctor, you think ifs a fully developed case, do you ?" 

" In rny whole experience I have never run across one so easily diag- 
nosed," answered the Doctor, chuckling. 

The philosopher in the shadow of the Brighton chair gave a little 
grunt, but continued to say nothing. 

"Well, isn't it delicious?" went on Mrs. Burton; "and, do you 
know, I take all the credit to myself, Doctor. If I had not urged Mrs. 
Acton to come back this summer, who knows if they would have ever 
met to say nothing of the way in which I have contrived to have 



Appendix B 237 

them thrown together. Well, if they both consent to go with us on 
the yacht, we may as well consider the thing as good as settled/' 

" Which they won't do," murmured the philosopher. 

" Won't they ? Won't they, though ?" snapped the Doctor, wheeling 
about with twinkling eyes ; " want to bet on it ?" 

" Oh, don't mind him, dear Doctor. Tom's liver is his weak point 
He calls it pessimism," said Mrs. Burton, tossing the morning paper 
over to her nephew. 

"Beg pardon a note, Ma'am, from Miss H'acton," apologized 
Peake, coming to the veranda railing hat in hand. 

"Ah, now we shall know about her, at any rate," chirped Mrs. 
Burton, taking the note. 

" Beg pardon a note from Mr. Wright, Ma'am," added Peake as 
if announcing the demise of his mother. 

" What ?" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, but then, remembering the 
groom's presence, " ah, yes, I was expecting it. Thank you that is 
all." 

Peake withdrew in profound melancholy, and as soon as he had 
disappeared around the corner of the house Mrs. Burton broke into a 
laugh in which Doctor Black joined, but whose speedy termination 
the cynic in the Brighton chair seemed to await with pitying scorn. 

"Well, well, well, we are coming on with a vengeance," gurgled 
Doctor Black through his triple chin ; " but I don't see why they wasted 
that second sheet of paper might just as well have written a joint 
note and both signed it." 

To this the philosopher made no reply, but kept his eye fixed upon 
Mrs. Burton's kind old face. That lady had been worth watching too, 
for after reading one of the notes the queerest look came into her eyes, 
and when she had finished the other she dropped both the astounding 
epistles and sat staring at the Doctor. 

" Are they both going ?" sneered the philosopher. 

" Certainly but " replied Mrs. Burton, adding suddenly : 

" And now, Tom, you scamp, what does it all mean ? So this is what 
you've been grumpy about, eh? Well, sir, if you will be good enough 
to confess, why, then, your poor old aunt may forgive you." 

"What the deuce is it all about, anyway?" broke in the Doctor 
before the philosopher could reply. 

Mrs. Burton pointed to the two notes with the toe of her slipper, 
and the Doctor stooped and picked them up, and at a nod from Mrs. 
Burton he read them. 

Tom was summoned within to the telephone, and during his very 
protracted stay in the house his aunt and Doctor Black tried in vain 
to diagnose the new and decidedly alarming symptoms. That each 
of Mrs. Burton's proteges was suffering from, acute heart disease was, 



238 Appendix B 

manifest, but, then, how had they ventured to accept an invitation to 
spend three mortal weeks cooped up in the yacht together? 

" Each little fool thinks that the other is not going," suggested the 
Doctor; "that's the only explanation." 

" Goodness ! That must be it. And if anything short of deliberate 
lying can prevent them finding out, it shall be done," declared Mrs. 
Burton, tingling with joy at the thought of playing her favorite role 
of fairy godmother by bringing about an entente cordiale not the first 
by any means on the historic Day Off. The Doctor took oath that 
he would go even further in his efforts to that pious end, striking 
from his copy of the agreement Mrs. Burton's qualifying clause as to 



Meanwhile Tom was not altogether idle in the telephone booth under 
the stairs. 

" Oh Lord !" groaned the voice at the other end of the line after 
he had announced that, yes, Miss Acton was to be on the yacht. 

" Now, what the devil am I to do about it ? Of course, I can't go 
now, and yet I've just sent your aunt an acceptance," went on the 
groan, but, suddenly changing the tone, added : " but, by Jove ! I've 
got it. I sent my note by Actons' groom you know him by sight 
looks like an undertaker. Lay for him, Tom, and kill the fool if he 
refuses to give you my note see?" 

There was infinite pathos in the plea, but Tom smiled. 

" Too late, old man Aunt Kate has the note has just read it 
and hers too so you're in for it/' 

"But, damn it, man," sputtered over the wire against the rule of 
the telephone company. " I tell you I can't go ! Now stand by me, old 
chap, and think for me, for I'm all in dead sick." 

" Why not work that racket then ?" suggested the philosopher. 

" That's the game ! But what in the name of thunder can I have ? 
That queer feeling wouldn't go down, I'm afraid," whined the voice 
at the Casino. 

"Let me think but, Lord, Bert, any old thing will do until the 
yacht gets away appendicitis anything." 

There was a whirr, and " Central" broke in to ask if they were 
through. 

"In a minute, Central why?" replied Tom. 

" Other party trying to get you," answered Central, and Tom felt 
a thrill of joy trickle down his very sensitive spine. It might be she ! 
So he let the unmerciful click cut Wright off, and the next moment 
a timid voice bore testimony to the reliability of hia spine as a weather 
prophet. It was she. 

" Yes, it's I, and certainly, the door of the booth is closed what 
can I do for you?" replied Tom sympathetioallj, 



Appendix B 239 

" Oh Mr. Bathurst, I'm in such trouble, and I didn't know how 
on earth I could well, you see, I heard down at the tennis courts that 
Mrs. Burton is taking a lot of people, and, of course, since papa's 
death we have tried to keep as quiet as possible. I wrote and accepted 
your aunt's invitation, and now I don't know how to get out of going 
without hurting her feelings, you know oh, do help rne, won't you ?" 

" Nonsense I" replied Tom, executing an unseen ecstatic medicine 
dance in the stuffy booth, " somebody has been retailing gossip. No- 
body is going but Hilda and me and Mr. Wright." 

Tom regretted at that moment that the telephone does not repro- 
duce colors as well as sounds. There was a ghastly pause, and then a 
wobbly voice said, " Well, anyhow, I really do not think that I ought 
to go. Do tell me some way to avoid going, won't you, without offend- 
ing Mrs. Burton. I am really far from well." 

" Why not make that the excuse then ?" suggested the tempter, 
holding his breath with anxious hope. 

" That would be the best way, I suppose but, then, what on earth 
can I say that I have ? Doctor Black saw me only last night. He would 
be sure to urge mamma to send me off on this cruise. Oh, dear, isn't 
it dreadful?" 

" But couldn't you say you dreaded something appendicitis any- 
thing just until the yacht sailed?" insinuated Tom, resuming the 
medicine dance. 

Once more the whirr and " Central's" peevish question, and this 
time Tom suffered the interruption to be permanent, and rejoined the 
Doctor on the veranda with a look of seraphic innocence on his pensive 
face. 

At the Casino and at " The Barnacle" an angry lady and gentleman 
made each a futile effort to reestablish diplomatic relations with their 
war correspondent at " The Anchorage," and then went each to work 
to develop an idea. 

" Well, sir," snorted the Doctor when Tom sat down by him. 
"what the devil does it all mean? Bert broke again?" 

" Stony of course," replied Tom serenely. 

" Then why the deuce didn't he come to me? Damme ! I hope I'm 
not the man to believe all those old women at the Casino. If the young 
rascal lost heavily when those '04 bandits raided the bungalow, I know 
old Wright won't see the boy through, but I will stake him for a couple 
of hundred for he must go on this cruise. Lord save us, the girl is 
gone on him, and she will have three hundred thousand in her own 
name, and " 

" Oh, Bert's a safe enough investment, all right. I'd let him have 
five hundred myself if I had it, you know; but he don't need it. 
That gambling story is all tommyrot honestly. I was there myself, 



240 Appendix B 

and the heaviest loser too, and I lost just eight dollars and a quarter. 
No, Doctor, it's not cash that worries Bert just now." 

" Had a tiff with the saucy little beauty, eh ? What of it ? Damme ! 
I say, what of it, sir? All the better, sir! And all the more reason 
he should go. Never went on a cruise in my life that I didn't make 
love to every woman aboard." 

" But Bert is a sick man, Doctor," replied Tom seriously. 

" Eh, eh ? What's that ? Will the blooming young ass never know 
that I'm headquarters for him, no matter what's the matter with him ? 
Sick, eh? Why, bless my soul, sir, I'd have been his father, sir, if his 
mother hadn't been an idiot and married old Wright a cold-storage 
warehouse, sir, full of himself! Sick, eh? What's the matter with 
him?" 

Mrs. Burton's return at the moment gave Tom an opportunity to in- 
dicate by a significant look that Bert's malady was one to be discussed 
later, which had the effect of making Doctor Black fume with appre- 
hension and irritation. Tom at once disappeared, and Mrs. Burton 
took up the conversation with the Doctor at the point where it had 
been broken off; but what his views were as to early marriage Mrs. 
Burton did not learn, for the bereaved Peake again appeared, hat in 
hand, at the veranda railing. 

"Beg pardon a note from Miss H'acton, Ma'am, and one from 
Mr. Wright, Ma'am, thank you, Ma'am," said Peake, and retired, 
filled, no doubt, with speculation as to why Miss H'acton had written 
two notes in the past hour and the still more inexplicable fact that 
Mr. Wright had also done so and waylaid him with the intent to make 
him fetch them to the same address. 

The Doctor watched Mrs. Burton anxiously as she read the two 
notes, sharing that lady's manifest nervousness and curiosity. But 
Mrs. Burton sat as if hypnotized. 

"Well, we are getting better, I trust? What do the young idiots 
have to say this time, Kate? Come, don't keep an old lover waiting 
this way hand over!" 

Mrs. Burton handed him the two notes with a trembling hand. 
The Doctor read as follows, with rapidly growing agitation in the 
region of his chins, and rendering the sentences incoherent by inter- 
jections not here reproduced: 

" MY DEAR MBS. BURTON : It is with a dreadful feeling of 
being considered ungrateful and perhaps worse that I now 
hasten to recall the acceptance which I sent you half an hour 
ago, but I think it my duty to do so. In confidence I tell you 
that I fear an attack of appendicitis, and, of course, under the 
circumstances it would be folly to embark for a three weeks' 
cruise. Pray take my first note as the real expression of my 



Appendix B 241 

wishes, and this last one as that of my very painful duty. 
Hoping that you all will have the jolliest sort of a time, and 
renewing my thanks and regrets, I am, sincerely yours, 

" HEBBEHT F. WRIGHT." 

Without comment the Doctor then read the other note, as if in a 
leep trance. It ran: 

"My DEAR MBS. BtJBTON: What will you think of me? I 
can't go! No, don't, please, urge me, for it would be wrong 
for me to think of it possibly fatal! You see, my dear Mrs. 
Burton, when I got your sweet invitation I was so overjoyed 
that 1 just sat down and accepted, for I did so want to go! 
But, of course, on thinking it over I knew that it was out of 
the question. If I tell you the real reason, you must promise 
not to mention it to any living soul, as it would only alarm 
mamma unnecessarily, and, after all, it may come to nothing. 
I fear that I may come down with appendicitis now, don't for 
mercy's sake breathe a word of this! but, of course, it may 
be only indigestion or something else. You will agree with me 
that I ought not to start on a three weeks' cruise under the 
circumstances. Hoping that you will have the loveliest time, 
which I know you will, I am, dearest Mrs. Burton, yours, oh, 
so gratefully, " MUBIEL ACTON." 

The Doctor and Mrs. Burton looked at each other in silence, the 
latter undecided whether she were the stage-manager at a tragedy or a 
farce, with the weight of evidence for the farce. 

" Don't speak to me ! Don't say one word, Kate ! Where's Tom 
the young devil?" sputtered the Doctor, rising and grabbing his hat 
and stick. 

He found Tom, and together they disappeared in the direction of 
" Hurricane Hall" and " The Barnacle/' the Doctor's mind full of a 
great surgeon's passion to eliminate the only useless appurtenance to 
an eminently useful universe, and Tom's mind full of unholy joy 
bordering upon delirium. 

" Tackle Bert's first, Doctor, or or Appendix B ?" asked Tom. 

" Shut up donkey !" thundered the Doctor, deep in thought. 

Two hours later the Doctor got Mrs. Burton on the telephone and 
said: "It's all over! Both operations were successful, and the two 
patients will go with us on the yacht to-morrow. Engagement will be 
announced at the Casino to-night. Say, Kate, old girl, honestly now, 
were we ever such a pair of " 

" Central" cut them off. The dreaded affair at the Casino proved 
to be, after all, the most enjoyable night Muriel had ever known one 
does feel so relieved after that particular operation, they say ! 



A PIUTE TRAGEDY -OR 
COMEDY 

By Emmanuel Lissner 



A~30G barked outside the wickiup, and at the sound Posey rolled 
over and faced his squaw. 
" Ugh ! get up !" he grunted, and he closed his eyes again. 

After a short spell of silence the dog barked a second time, and 
again Posey stirred. 

" Ugh ! get up !" he said once more, this time accompanying his 
words with a poke at his wife's side. " Get up ! get up and gather 
some sticks for the fire. Every morning you lie like a hog. Get up ! 
get up !" 

Then he punched her in the ribs again and again until she cried 
out in her pain, " Stop, stop, or I will go to my father, the Bishop, 
and he will come and kill you !" 

" Hold your tongue," answered the brave. " I care not for the old 
man, your father." - 

" He will kill you ! He will kill you !" she shrieked again. 

" And I will kill you !" he said. 

" He will kill you ! He will kill you !" came back the wail. 

Posey half sat up in his blankets. Silently he thrust out his hand 
until it came into contact with his revolver. Then, without another 
word, he emptied the six chambers into the prostrate body of the 
woman. 

" Ugh !" he said as he lay back to sleep. 

The sun was high when Posey again awoke. He arose to his feet 
and for a moment stood looking down upon his victim. Then he went 
outside, caught his pony, and galloped hard towards the south, out of 
reach of the avenging Bishop. 

Posey remained six months among the reservation Indians of the 
south. So well did he employ his time at monte and poker, but mostly 
at monte, that his one pony increased to six, and the entire six wore 
bridles of hammered silver. But a longing for home seized upon him, 
and he started back for the north with all his possessions. 

242 



A Ballade of Bal Bullier 243 

When his journey was almost over he met the Bishop. The two 
neared each other cautiously, each expecting a shot. But when the 
old man saw his son-in-law's new wealth he consented to a parley, and, 
as a result, when he rode away he led a pony with a silver-studded 
bridle, and the next day he sent another daughter to Posey. 



A BALLADE OF BAL BULLIER 

(IN THE LATIN QUARTER) 
BY FRANK ROE BATCHELDER 

THURSDAY night ! And you, Nanette- 
Are you dancing, free from care? 
Do you hear the fiddles fret? 
Is there laughter in the air ? 
Does the solemn tourist stare 
Down upon the passing show, 

As when we were comrades there, 
Thursday evenings long ago ? 

Where are Augustine, Lisette, 

Valentin, and Jean " le Pere" ? 
Do you keep your whistles wet ? 

Are you cutting capers rare ? 

Is the jack-rose in your hair? 
Does your bosom gleam and glow 

'Neath the lace you used to wear 
Thursday evenings long ago? 

Oh, my heart is with you yet, 

Little Mistress Laissez-Faire ! 
In the sorry days of debt, 

When our cupboard went so bare, 

You, who never knew despair, 
Laughed and danced away my woe 

'Neath the lanterns' mellow glare 
Thursday evenings long ago. 

Mistress, think not I forswear 
Love, yourself, the Quartier no ! 

Nor the fun we used to share 
Thursday erenings long ago. 



"MAROONED" 

By Mary Moss 

Author of "A Sequence in Hearts," "Fndt Out of Season" etc. 



A an intimidating peal followed his muscular pull at the door-bell, 
Edward Fenton became aware of a staring placard, " Walk in 
Without Kinging." His sense of being at a hopeless disadvantage 
did not lessen on finding himself the only man in a small office 
densely populated and hot. In a shadowy space to the rear, behind 
tall screens, he dimly realized undefined groups from which an occa- 
sional human particle detached itself and drifted towards a front room 
bright with uncurtained sunlight. His consciousness next registered a 
hemicircle of sitting ladies; confronting each of these stood an Irish- 
woman, truculent or sullen. Gradually a familiar face showed here and 
there, but never before had his wife's friends worn this aspect, aggres- 
sive, conciliating, nervous, they seemed anything but their natural 
selves. 

Between the darkened Purgatory beyond and the ruthless glare in 
which he paused there vibrated a cynic whom he risked addressing as 
"Mrs. Popham?" 

" You want a cook ?" The tone of her query would have fitly met 
the demand for a dozen fresh-laid roc's eggs. 

"I've heard Mrs. Fenton speak of coming here " Edward al- 
most felt called upon to apologize. 

She cut him short. "Of course, this is a very poor day, and you 
are too early; besides, June's the worst month of the year, but I'll see. 
There might be one in later. Kindly take a seat." 

Entirely cowed, Edward collapsed, but presently rallied so far as 
to discover in his neighbor a somewhat humorous spinster, with whom 
he had been mildly intimate in days before May came upon the scene. 

" You here ?" Wasn't there a trifle of mockery in Miss Anne's pity- 
ing exclamation? 

"It's quite by accident," he hastened to exculpate himself and 
May ; " my wife left me with a household that seemed excellent, but the 
cook fought the maid, then they both marched off." 

" Of course, that's etiquette. Lose your enemy her place, but never 
outstay her," interpolated Miss Anne. 

" So I just stopped in to get a couple of others," Edward continued 
with a jauntiness evoked by a queer expression in the lady's penetrating 

244 



" Marooned" 245 

eyes. " It's my first experience, and we've been married six years," he 
boasted. 

" May and the children at Bar Harbor ?" Miss Anne asked. 

" Yes, she can't bear the places near town, so instead of taking a 
cottage and my going to and fro, the way we used to, this year I in- 
sisted on her being where her friends are and having a really satisfac- 
tory time. I join her for three weeks in September." 

" Here's a nice girl, Mr. Fenton." With unconvincing benevolence 
Mrs. Popham anchored in front of him a stern and ancient Valkyr. 

" Have the others been long with yous ?" The newcomer took a 
fierce initiative. 

" No, oh, no !" In his own office Edward was a man of authority, 
but here even the weakest woman rose immeasurably his superior. Over- 
hearing a lady to the right bluntly assert, " You won't do ; I never 
could stand a cross-eyed waitress," he envied her inhuman courage. 

His examiner deigned to enlarge : " I never go where the other help 
has been anny while, because sometimes they sides with the family." 
The Valkyr's manner assumed as inevitable a state of raging inter- 
necine warfare. 

Kinder than she looked, Miss Anne here executed a skilful and 
intricate manreuvre. " Too bad the position doesn't suit," she 
affably interrupted, "but the gentleman only wants a plain cook, not 
a regular chef like you. You are quite right to refuse; it wouldn't be 
worth your while to consider such a place." 

Sensible of a flaw in this, but unable to localize it without loss of 
dignity, the "nice girl" trundled off with a snort, leaving Edward 
past resentment at Miss Anne's having taken the measure of his weak- 
ness. 

Without comment his rescuer meanwhile had scribbled an address. 
" My advice is don't try to run the house yourself. At this number 
you will find a quiet, tidy woman. She'll keep things clean and get 
your breakfast. Go out for the other meals till May comes back." 

For fidelity and scrubbing Miss Anne's candidate proved good as 
her word, but one fried beefsteak at home fully converted Edward to 
seeking nourishment elsewhere. In this there was no special hard- 
ship, as adjacent country-houses hastened with ready hospitality to 
welcome a stray man. Other stray men likewise joined forces with 
him for pleasant dinners at the club and evenings of temperate Bridge. 
The lingering sunlight of early summer permitted a game of golf after 
working hours, or even a turn down the bay on a friend's yacht. 

Then the change came! 

The country-house people had gone North. Yachts hoisted 
anchor and left New York harbor far behind. Shortening August days 



246 " Marooned" 

afforded dwindling light on the golf-links; at the club, deep arm- 
chairs formed empty groups about abandoned card-tables. In Ed- 
ward's street, boarded-up doors and windows turned blind faces to 
the passers-by. Before long his evenings resolved themselves into a 
dismal routine of reading in his echoing, dreary habitation until the 
earliest hour at which a man could decently go to bed. As the heat 
grew more and more oppressive he fell into the habit of lounging 
coatless, with open collar and dangling tie. All at once self-respect 
was restored with a jerk by the sight of his own stockinged feet re- 
posing on a chair in front of him. Such evidence of demoralization 
aroused him to smoke less and hunt up a man to dine. At this point, 
however, an energetic though absent house committee delivered the club 
over to a horde of painters, paper-hangers, and other maleficent beings, 
whose disturbing activities filled even the small temporary dining-' 
room with an intolerable reek of varnish and sour paste. Driven from 
this last refuge, Edward bade his friend meet him at an inn where, 
to compensate for the ready-made flavor of such entertainment, he 
arrived shortly before the appointed hour to give personal supervision 
to entrees and wine. The hostelry and its patrons wore an unaccus- 
tomed air. Guests were there in plenty, but hardly a face he had ever 
seen. Yes, over in the corner was a man he knew, Henry Browne 
but the woman ! Edward looked away in angry contempt. He had no 
idea that Browne was like that. And the other women young, gay, 
several of them pretty. But he shrank from their remotest contact. 
Edward had married young, and never ceased to love his wife. 

Seven-thirty past ! His friend not come yet ! How brazen the 
women looked ! He would never bring May here again, they contami- 
nated the room : where these had been was no place for his delicate 
young wife. 

Seven-fifty ! How hot it was ! Baked, unfresh air drifted in 
through window-boxes from a dusty street. A passing water-cart gare 
disappointing suggestion of rain. The ice in the glasses had melted. 

Eight o'clock ! Too sweltering to eat, yet he felt almost faint from 
long fasting. 

"Telegram for E. Fenton, Esquire!" a messenger boy piped at 
the door. 

May ! Had anything happened to her ? No, only his friend, sud- 
denly called West. 

Edward felt unduly blank and chagrined. It seemed hours since 
he had broken silence. The waiter stood, bowing, questioning. 

Into the opposite seat there slid a charming girl. White-clad and 
cool in all this heat, she gave him a friendly nod and proceeded to pull 
off spotless white gloves. He noted the transparent, blue-veined hands, 
the filmy dress of perfect elegance and simplicity, the great, shadowy, 



" Marooned" 247 

plume-laden hat. She was slim as a nymph, with waving, brown hair, 
small, oval face, pale, fine-textured, and guiltless of powder or paint 
but for a heavy black line on the under lids of long-lashed, violet eyes. 

" Too bad of her I" She spoke with unflawed confidence. 

" 1 beg your pardon !" Edward stiffened. 

" Mine disappointed too \" The rosy finger-tips held up a telegram. 
" Funny if they'd met and stopped off together somewhere. However, 
it doesn't really matter. We two can get on without missing them. 
Are these glasses meant for anything?" she asked the waiter. 

" 1 beg your pardon," Edward repeated, " I was expecting a man 
to dine/' 

She eyed him with amused disbelief. " They all expect a man 
specially in August. But won't I do as well? I was expecting my 
grandmother but as she's played me false, you seem the very thing to 
take her place." 

The impudence of this brought added heat to the area above Ed- 
ward's collar. 

" You've ordered plenty of food," she touched an array of forks, 
" and I'm hungry enough ! Oh, there it comes !" 

As the clams were set before them Edward felt the situation pass 
beyond his control. Heaven could bear witness he did not want her, 
but how may a man thrust this assertion upon a woman, young, pretty, 
and full of unfair resources ? 

" He won't be back till ten o'clock," she indicated her telegram, 
" and I've really no money for dinner." 

"I'm very happy to offer you refreshment," Edward knew he 
was talking like a teapot, " but perhaps you will kindly" he reached 
for his gloves "excuse my remaining any longer." 

" Then I go too !" Her pale cheeks flushed. " Certainly, if you 
can't be seen with me, I'm the one to leave !" 

Edward helplessly subsided in his seat. For them both to flounce 
out would be several shades more conspicuous than quietly sitting the 
meal through. Then, in spite of her exasperating effrontery, the diffi- 
culty of cold-bloodedly insulting her a girl ! 

The dinner began in silence. Presently she examined him curiously 
through her long lashes. An average young man, steady, common- 
place, not very diverting. How well she knew the type ! 

Edward also studied her covertly. She was younger than he had 
supposed, no older than May when he married her, and so pretty, so 
soft-voiced ! 

" Look here," he began awkwardly, " why do you " 

She made a gesture of dissent, letting him have a revealing view of 
the violet eyes. " My dear man, drop that ! Try to amuse yourself 
light-heartedly just for once." 



248 " Marooned" 

" You look too good for your job, that' s all." Edward relapsed into 
natural gruffness. 

" I'm not ! I'm fit for that and nothing else on earth." She drew 
between them a barrier of steely flippancy. " Besides, you have no 
responsibility for me. I don't know, though," she added with a hint 
of malice, " perhaps, after all, you have." 

" I don't remember pressing you to join me." Edward winced at 
his own brutality. 

A whimsical look hovered around her fine-cut, sophisticated mouth. 
" I wish I knew the trade that lets a man make money enough to 
well, to dine here without his having an ounce of brains. All the 
good people," she went on, as he volunteered no defence, " are really 
responsible for all the bad people. Isn't that modern criminology? 
Oh! I read Lombroso and Nietzsche and the rest of them. You see, 
I'm clever," she continued, " and I wanted to understand about my- 
self, my symptoms. They have taught me that my impulses are 
unavoidable. But they don't at all explain the good people, the good 
women. They aren't always square at their job." 

" I don't see that you have to be either bad or clever to find that 
out," Edward snubbed. 

" You, being neither," the girl made a little gesture of comic 
discouragement, " are very hard to talk to. Out of respect for your 
sensibilities I confine my remarks to abstract moral and intellectual 
regions, and you tell me I'm not an original thinker. Do I look like 
one?" 

As she beguiled him with the violet eyes Edward suddenly realized 
that he had been lonely, that chance had thrown a pleasant companion 
across his path. Leaning his elbows on the table he let her make play 
with the long lashes, unsnubbed and unrestrained. 

In a flash her mood changed. With a complete lack of coquetry she 
questioned him about his occupations, the books he read. Always in 
their talk there came queer lapses. In theory, if not actually, his tastes 
were bound up with May and the children forbidden ground upon 
which the stranger wisely did not trespass. 

Half -past nine! The room had thinned out; through a floating 
haze of smoke other parties seemed remote. " He will be here soon," 
she said abruptly. 

" Then I go !" He felt unspeakable distaste at the idea of him ! 

"Wait a minute," she was speaking with a new note of sincerity. 
" Early in the evening you wanted to give me some advice." 

" I still want to, if you will let me." His tone no longer sounded 
hostile. 

She shook her pretty head. "No use, I'm gone, spoilt. I don't 
really deserve anything else, but you you are worth looking after/' 



" Marooned" 249 

All at once, without growing louder, her voice lost every trace of 
youthful softness. " I may be bad I am ! But what the good women 
do with a clear conscience take your own wife " 

" Leave her out, please," Edward bristled. 

" Certainly." She winced. " We'll talk of Mrs. Browne. Browne's 
a nice man, very domestic. Works hard, likes his home, likes Mrs. 
Browne. He was sitting over there to-night with that yellow-haired 
girl." 

" How do you know what he likes ?" Edward asked in spite of him- 
self. 

** We know a good bit have to in our business I" she answered 
shortly. " Now, listen ! Browne used to knock about all summer 
with that lonely look, the look you had when I first saw you sitting here. 
He stayed lonely just three summers ; this is the fourth ! There's one 
thing about us," she went on with bitter intention, "we stick to the 
shop; but Mrs. Browne, she draws full pay and only works half time. 
She cheats ! do you see ? That's why New York is such a weird place 
in summer. In winter well, it's never heaven, but when all the wives 
leave for parts unknown" her staccato words dropped like hail " we 
own this town. You don't find us at the sea-shore resorts. It keeps 
us busy to look after the men whose womenkind can't stand the heat 
of Manhattan, or the flatness of Jersey, or the Long Island mosquito. 
We may have our weak points, but we earn our money." 

"You don't seem to blame the men at all," he objected. 

" Oh, the men !" she gave a sigh of infinite disillusionment, " that's 
another question. I only think a sensible husband who wants to run 
straight should keep his wife nearer home." She drew out a tiny, 
jewelled watch. 

Edward pushed back his chair. " Time for me to be off !" Without 
again meeting her eye, he hurried from the room. 

Outside the atmosphere was murky with August heaviness. In- 
definable odors released by heat hung suspended in exhausted air. 
Hansoms flitted to and fro, street music sounded in the distance. 

Hard-worked, lonely, worn with heat and senseless, everlasting 
noise, he had unconsciously drifted towards a condition where the 
nerves play strange tricks and practical men commit follies. Eeaching 
home, with tragic resolution he sat down to his desk and wrote. Sheet 
after sheet passed from under his active pen. He would tell May the 
whole thing, she had a right to know. He would not spare himself. 
At the first hint of temptation he had yielded without an effort. So 
it now seemed to him. That he had gone no farther might only be 
because his dismissal had come at ten o'clock, who could say? Eest- 
lessly he left the desk and walked about his room. The thermometer 
stood at ninety-eight. He sealed and addressed the letter. Then, 



250 Moods 

slowly, consideringly, he put a lighted match to one corner and de- 
liberately watched it blacken and burn till only a little, evil-smelling 
ash remained. Then again he wrote : 

" DEAR MAT: I shall get off next week, after all. It leaves 
the office short-handed, but the heat or something has rather 
used me up. Do you know, dear, I'm awfully glad you are 
having such a good summer, but next year I almost think we'll 
have to take a cottage nearer town." 

Edward paused, gave his honest head a shake, and dashed off 
blindly : 

" The fact is, 1 seem to be a poor manager, and this business 
of dining out every night is playing horse with my 
digestion." 



MOODS 

BY BLANCHE TRENNOR HEATH 

AH, no, she said, we will not break 
The stillness of this sunset glow ! 
She thought For if his voice should take 
That tender tone, my heart would wake, 
And I should know and were it so, 
Could I say, Go? 

The rose? she said; no, leave it there, 

The last red bud upon the spray ! 
She thought For if his rose I wear, 
And breathe its sweetness in my hair, 
What shall I say ? my soul betray, 
And answer, Stay? 

That path, she said, along the sand 

Too narrow is for two to press ! 
She thought For if he held my hand 
So close we both should understand ! 

And would my Yes mean happines? ? 

How shall T guess? 



ACCORDING TO LADY MOYLE 

ABOUT ISABEL GANNING 

By Baroness von Hut ten 

Author of "Jlfarr'd In Making," "Our Lady of the Beeches" " Violett" etc. 



HOTEL, ALBEUMAKLE STREET, 

March 12. 
I. 

DEAR SUSAN : It certainly was you who told me that Isabel 
Ganning was very unhappy with her Roumanian and on the 
point of leaving him. Wasn't it you? 

It was somebody, and I naturally repeated it, and now it appears 
that there isn't a word of truth in the whole story ! 

This is extremely unpleasant for me, as you can imagine, and I 
must say I don't see how you ever got such an idea into your head. 
Lady Moira (everyone calls her Little Mary now, of course) burst in 
on me yesterday, while I was innocently drying my three hairs after 
having them washed with that enchanting new egg and geranium con- 
coction of Carron's, prepared to have my blood. 

She is disagreeably fierce and fluent when she's angry, and I was 
quite cowed until I remembered to tell her that it was you who had 
told me. How I hope it was you! 

Mind you, I quite believe it was, for I have a feeling as of a 
yellow cup in my hand, and the sun on my back, and that queer 
eucalyptus-camphory aroma that means you to the reminiscing nostrils 
of those who love you. 

" Little Mary" (poor dear, her curious figure renders the nick-name, 
with its Barrie-associations, so strikingly appropriate, but she con- 
siders straight front stays what she calls " deleterious" !) waddled away, 
after fervid apologies on my part and ecstatic rejoicings over Isabel's 
bliss, convinced that some ill-natured gossip had picked out you as a 
repository of the calumny, because your truthfulness and anti-scandal- 
mongering principles are so well-known. This must be true if it was 
you who told me ! 

You are the only person I know who always smells of eucalyptus, 
and so it must be you, for the very thought of Isabel curls up my 
nose. 

And, anyhow, my dearest Susan, I didn't dare be even the wee bit 
vague that I felt. " Someone told me" doesn't go down at such close 
quarters, you know! 

261 



252 According to Lady Moyle 

So, now, I've confessed. Please say it was you and make your old 
friend happy. 

No news here. Jessica's baby looks like a young chimpanzee, but 
she thinks him lovely, which is all that is necessary. 

London very dull at present. Of course, I am glad poor Isabel 
is not going to do anything shocking, but between you and me, I wish 
someone would. Virtue is lovely and admirable, but its discussion does 
not enliven dull dinners ! Your devoted 

THEODOSIA MOYLE. 

II. 

March 17. 

DEAR SUSAN: I am distressed beyond measure by your letter. If 
it wasn't you, who was it? And why do I smell eucalyptus every time 
I think of it? 

Of course, I went at once to Lady Moira and told her that I had 
been mistaken. Harry Brathwayt was there, and looked at me in a 
most disagreeable way when I could only insist that someone had told 
me the story. He is her uncle, you know Isabel's, I mean. 

Then I met Maud Payne-Bartlett, and she was downright rude to 
me; told me that she had "just had a letter from Isabel Mcolesco, 
and that she was very happy indeed." Quite as if I wished her to be 
unhappy. People are so besotted and idiotic ! 

I am so sorry that I thought it was you, and you may be sure that 
I am telling everyone that it was not. Your devoted 

THEODOSIA MOYLE. 

in. 

March 19. 

DEAB SUSAN : Could it have been Lady Henderton ? She uses some 
very strong scent, perhaps it's that that misled me, and you know she 
came in to tea the day you were ill after the Welsh rabbits Jessica 
made. I think if I could remember who it was who told me, I could 
bear it better. And I have much to bear. 

That nasty paper, Hupper Suedes, had a long article about Isabel, 
saying how unhappy she was, etc., and ending with a phrase expressing 
their regret at being forced to believe the story as it was told by Lady 
Turm ("turmoil," you see, the wretches!). And yesterday Mr. Gan- 
ning came up to me in the Park when I was walking with Diddums 
and asked me point-blank where I had heard such a story, and having 
heard it, why I repeated it! It was a hideous moment. I couldn't 
very well tell the man that I repeated it because everyone hungers and 
thirsts for gossip, and I had to tell him that I couldn't remember who 
my informant had been. 

He was civil in a grim way, but he looked at me as if I had 
been a slug crawling over his pet rose, and I don't know what would 



According to Lady Moyle 253 

have happened if Diddums hadn't, just in the nick of time, tried to 
swallow another dog, so that I could rush away to the rescue and 
forget to come back ! 

I am not at all well. This thing has got on my nerves most hor- 
ribly. I smell eucalyptus (you know I never liked it!) all day, and 
dream of Isabel and eucalyptus and you all night. Who could it have 
been? 

I have written to Lady Henderton to ask her if it were she, but 
she is at Khartoum visiting her son, so I shaVt hear for some time. 
And, besides, no sane creature ever used eucalyptus who didn't have 
to, and so far as I know her respiratory organs are all right. Your 
devoted 

T. M. 

IV. 

March 22. 

DEAR SUSAN : There was another man ! I mean, in the story about 
Isabel ! It all came back to me in the night that some man is in love 
with her, you know, and she with him ! 

Who could have told me? 

I was never so distressed in my life ! Not that I care tuppence if 
half-a-dozen men are in love with the girl ! My mind is absolutely cen- 
tred on myself. I mean that people are treating me badly. General 
Lee-Abbott took me down to dinner last night at the Bretts' and was 
barely civil. Lulu Brett might have known better than to send me 
down with Isabel Ganning's godfather! 

I begin to utterly loathe Isabel. Do you remember how frightfully 
she used to bite her nails? 

Jim Chester wants me to go down to Gruddle, but I will not. I 
have done nothing to be ashamed of, and I will not run away. Every- 
one tells scandalous stories about his or her friends, so why shouldn't I ? 
Isabel never was my friend, either; I never could bear people who 
turn out their toes as she does like a great stork. Sorry Lorna Doone 
died, but, after all, she did have fits. I feel that I am going to remem- 
ber who it was who told be about Isabel. I'll write you the minute I 
do. Your devoted 

T. M. 

V. 

March 28. 

DEAR SUSAN : Do you think my mind can be going ? For every- 
one says that Isabel Ganning is perfectly happy with her husband, and 
that no one ever heard a word to the contrary, and yet I know that I 
did hear to the contrary, and I can't remember who told me ! Jim says 
one side of my brain works faster than the other, but I am convinced 
that that is not it. 



254 According to Lady Moyle 

I dream every night about the horrid little pink-eyed creature, and 
Sanderson told Mrs. Jennings (I heard her!) that / look strangely at 
myself in the glass while she is doing my hair! 

My great-grandmother had softening of the brain. Yours, 

T. M. 
VI. 

March 29. 

DEAR SUSAN : There is a man here who has just come from Braila, 
where Isabel lives. He's an Italian, a Count Something or other, a 
dark-eyed creature towards whom all young women's hearts throw out 
frail white shoots like potatoes in a cellar. 

He says Isabel is blissful. So my mind has gone. I am going to 
Gruddle to-morrow, and no doubt will be gibbering and playing with 
dolls shortly. Susan Nedderly, if you never see me again, or if you sec 
me only when I am quite idiotic, remember my mind must have 
been going when I first fancied that you told me the story about Isabel. 
If I could even now remember who did tell me, I could endure every- 
thing. Your devoted 

THEODOSIA MOYLE. 

VII. 

April 2. 

DEAR SUSAN : Thanks for your kind letter. Owen Meredith, though 
not much of a poet, was right when he said,. " After all, old things are 
best/' Not that I'm calling you an old thing. I mean that one clings 
to one's old friends in affliction. No! I mean that in affliction one 
clings to one's old friends. You will observe the difference. 

Thanks very much for asking me to come to Nedderly, but I must 
go home. I am quite broken ; you would hardly know me. Sanderson 
thinks me very ill. 

Last night I made a great effort and went to the Wyham's rnusicale. 
Melba sang. 

People were, of course, civil, but that was all, and Mr. Ganning 
pretended not to see me. At supper Lady Willy Marr was telling some 
story, and when she noticed me she stopped. 

I have never been insulted before. I am going to Gruddle. 
Dr. Eexford wrote me yesterday about the new window in the 
south transept. I think I shall give him two hundred pounds. Money 
can do little for one in this world. Dear Susan, I am now glad it was 
not you, and yet, I still smell eucalyptus, and who was it? Your af- 
fectionate old 

DOSIE. 
VIII. 

April 9. 

DEAR SUSAN: I am going to Gruddle to-morrow. I have been 
very ill very ever since I wrote you. The doctor said it was a bad 



According to Lady Moyle 255 

cold on my lungs, but I know better. My nerves are quite ruined. 
Sanderson says the way I moaned and groaned about eucalyptus was 
really heartbreaking and you know that Sanderson never errs on the 
side of over-sympathy. 

I had high fever for three days, and the subsequent prostration 
has been very great. 

Jessica is kind, and so is Jim. I would not let them write Maud, 
for why should my child suffer too? Besides, you know Maud always 
drops everything she touches, and is a perfect nuisance in a sick-room. 

Dr. Eexford delighted about the two hundred pounds. Poor, dear 
man, his lot too is not altogether enviable. 

Write soon to Gruddle. I am a little stronger to-day, and have had 
a bit of grilled fowl, but I am sadly changed. Your devoted 

T. M. 

IX. 

April 10. 

DEAR SUSAN : I am the happiest woman in the world ! Isabel Gan- 
ning has run away from her husband ! And guess with whom ? 

With the little Italian of whom I wrote you ! 

It appears that his mother was English, and his money invested 
here, and he had come over to arrange his affairs so that they should 
have plenty to live on ! He went away a week ago, she joined him in 
Vienna, and they are now in Russia ! 

She wrote to her father, and so did her husband, and it has all 
come out. 

Nicolesco looked like the wild man of Borneo; his hair was so 
black that it looked positively blue! (I met him just before the wed- 
ding,) but she did marry him, and on dit that her only excuse for leaving 
him was that he insisted on using peau d'espagne scent. 

I never liked her, and I must say that I am not surprised at her 
doing this, but it seems absolutely uncanny that throughout the whole 
affair a scent should have been inextricably connected with my memo- 
ries. Or was it not a memory ? Was it a premonition f 

Susan, you know that I never was superstitious, but I assure you 
there is something queer about the whole story. 

If, as it appears, no one told me that Isabel was going to run away 
from her husband, how did I know it? However, the essential point 
is that I did know it, and since that I am proved to have known it, I 
am the heroine of the hour I 

It is now nearly seven o'clock, and since one I have had a steady 
stream of visitors. 

I saw at once that my statement that I had forgotten who was my 
informant "before the act" was believed to have been prompted by 



256 Entranced 

discretion, so I let it go at that, and now everyone in town thinks I 
knew all about it four weeks ago ! 

Lady Moira and Harry Brathwayt came together. They are both 
much upset, and I was very sympathetic, but I refused with an air of 
patient courtesy, that was a positive inspiration, to tell how I had known 
before. 

General Lee-Abbott squeezed my hand to a galantine, and growled 
a funny mixture of apologies and deep-sea oaths that nearly upset me. 

Now I must put on much purple and f. 1. and rush off to dine quite 
informally, a la bonheur du pot, with the Marklands. Good-night, you 
poor, gouty old female ! Mind you never betray me ! Your devoted 

T. M. 

One P. M. It was Dr. Rexford! Horrid little man! It has all 
just come back to me, and I'm sitting up in bed to write it to you ! 

It was the day you went to see Jessica. Your eucalyptus bottle was 
on the table in the red room, and as he talked he opened it and sniffed 
at it. Thank God, that accounts for my memory of the smell! 

It was that cousin of his, Mrs. Robinson, who wrote his wife. 
She (Mrs. R.) had heard through a friend who lives in Braila. I can 
feel the sun on my back, just as I told you I could. He hoped it wasn't 
true, and told me as an example (" good old example," as Jessica says !) 
of the smallness of the world ! And to think that I couldn't remember ! 
How I have suffered! Well, I am sorry for poor Isabel, and also for 
the W. M. of Borneo, (thank Heaven, there are no little men of 
Borneo!) but it is a blessed thing to have been right all along! 

Rejoice with me, you eucalyptical old soul. 

DOSIE. 

Oh rage, oh desespoir, to think of the two hundred pounds I prom- 
ised him ! 



ENTRANCED 

BY FRANK H. SWEET 

THE wind has hushed its whisperings in rapt forgetfulness, 
The brook, reluctant, lingers there, as loath to move along, 
A tiny little ruby throat neglects to preen its dress, 
And all because a bobolink has lost itself in song. 



VOL. LXXIV NUMBER 441 

LIPPINCOTT'S 

MONTHLY MAGAZINE 

SEPTEMBER, 1904 




THE DEEP WATERS OF THE PROUD 

BY FRANCIS WILLING WHARTON 
Author of "The Story of Annabel Lee" "A Moabitish Woman'' etc. 

I. 

" CANNOT understand your having the temerity to hesitate," 
said Mrs. Peyton. " Can you look back on the last three years 
* and desire to repeat them?" 

Her niece was silent ; it was the older woman who again spoke. 

" This room," she began slowly, letting her handsome eyes wander 
over the moderate dimensions of the bedchamber in which they sat, 
"this room, which is our entire habitation, would convince most 
women of the good fortune which has come to us. Can you reconcile 
yourself to giving up luxury and ease for the privilege of living in 
this miserable place ?" 

" For the privilege of not selling myself to Mr. Anders, yes." The 
younger woman fixed her eyes on her companion as though hopeful of 
some answering look. A frown darkened Mrs. Peyton's forehead. 

"Don't be melodramatic, dear," was her response, and they were 
again silent. 

" You did not marry Uncle Peyton for money," began Mary ; but 
her aunt interrupted her. 

" No, I wish I had ; there would be no necessity for this discussion 
now, and I would have some substantial proof of my good sense. I 
married him for love, my dear, and in two years was as bankrupt in 
one as in the other. We're not a good couple for you to instance." 

" I did not know" the girl colored to the fair sweep of hair above 

Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. All rights reserved. 
VOL. LXXIV. 9 257 



258 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

her brow. " You never speak of him ; he has been dead a long while, 
and I did not know I beg your pardon, aunt." 

" Don't, don't." Mrs. Peyton held up her hand. " I am concerning 
myself with your marriage ; why should you not comment on mine ? 
only I must first make you aware of the circumstances, that's all. It 
was a failure, a romantic failure, and I've been an unromantic failure 
ever since. Marry Mr. Anders; he will give you money, a house, 
horses, clothes, pleasure; he will lift me from abject poverty to some 
comfort. I frankly admit my advocacy of his cause is due in part to 
that, but not altogether, Mary; you know, I think, that I have been 
a not unfaithful friend to you. What I have had, I have shared will- 
ingly with you ; that it has been so poor a portion of this world's goods 
is not my fault, my dear. Your mother" her brow contracted again 
" your mother married as I did for love. She died too soon to 
find out her mistake." 

" Don't," Mary made a little gesture, " don't ; we need not occupy 
ourselves with the past; it is of the future we are talking. You want 
me to escape poverty by marrying a man I don't even tolerate, whom I 
dislike." She stood up in her protest, straightening her beautiful, ill- 
clad figure, throwing back her lovely head. 

Mrs. Peyton looked at her regretfully. 

" Is it as bad as that ?" she said. " I'm sorry ; but do you like 
slow starvation better, dear and it's coming to that? Do you like 
to sit in this room without a fire, sewing things people don't want to 
buy? Do you like losing your hold on the class in which you were 
born, slipping gradually into the wretched kind of threadbare women 
who walk about the streets with white faces and gaunt eyes, trying to 
forget that they have had no breakfast, and may go without their 
dinner as well? Oh Mary, Mary, you're too good for that! Marry 
tin's man; he will be kind to you; he thinks of you as something 
worth giving any price for. If you are wise, you can keep his affec- 
tion and live a serene, full life not ideal, perhaps, but, compared to 
our present existence, a career of prosperous happiness." Mrs. Peyton 
ceased. 

Mary rose, and taking her coat and hat from the wardrobe, put 
them on without a glance into the dark glass over the bureau. 

" I will go out and walk, and think of all you say," she said, turn- 
ing her beautiful eyes, with their dark shadows below them, on her 
aunt's expectant face. " I will try to see it as you do ; you are more 
likely to be right than I am, and I am not ungrateful, Aunt Mary, 
either." She hesitated, and going over to the older woman stooped 
and kissed her, a caress not very often exchanged between them. 

" You will be cold in that miserable jacket." Mrs. Peyton answered. 

" No, I shall be warm enough : I will walk fast." and the girl left 
the room. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 259 

She stumbled quickly down the dark stairs ; well as she knew their 
various pitfalls, it was not often that she arrived without a trip of 
some kind at the bottom; and, hurrying through the narrow hall, 
with its heavy smell of food, she emerged into the long, grim, re- 
spectable street. She buttoned her jacket to her chin, thrust her hands 
deep in her little muff, and sped quickly towards the avenue, where the 
sunshine was busy melting the chopped up, muddy snow, and where 
rapid traffic and a stretch of sky made her feel as though let out of 
prison. Even here she walked fast, for it was cold, notwithstanding 
the glitter of the sunshine, or perhaps her thin clothes made her think 
it so. For a few moments the mere movement of her feet, the ex- 
hilarating rush of life about her, raised her prostrate spirit, and she 
gave herself up to the enjoyment, free to all who live in a great city, 
of watching its changing sights. She sought the widest, finest avenue 
in its centre, and, pushing her way through the well-dressed crowds of 
people, scudded by the crossings to avoid the horses as they whirled 
past her. As the crowds thickened she walked more slowly and began 
to work again upon her problem. 

" At least," she thought, " while I am free I can partake of the 
life about me somewhat as a spectator; if I did what Aunt Mary 
wishes, I should see everything through a poisoned mist. I may be 
starving, but I am not guilty. I feel as though this would be a shame- 
ful act. What is the difference between marrying this man for his 
money and the lives that some of these women about me are leading?" 

She glanced at a handsome creature, who was approaching with a 
swaying step that challenged notice of her sumptuous garments, whose 
eyes overlooked her as though beneath their notice, and yet the paint 
on her cheek, and the dye glittering in her hair, marked her as a 
woman who had forfeited the right to look askance at other women. 

Mary threw back her head; she felt something very like tears 
crowding to her eyes; she turned into a side street whose quiet came 
like a refuge after the noise and rush she had left, and, walking slowly 
along, tried to reason out her way. 

" If I do it" and she went over an intolerable future. "If I do 
not do it" and she dragged up the blank miseries of the past, and 
tried to think of them as stretching on indefinitely. The sudden 
shrinkage of Mrs. Peyton's little income a year ago had brought them 
very near destitution. They literally no longer had enough to live on. 
By buying an annuity with what was left to her she kept a roof over 
their heads, though the wretched amount of their food was still short, 
and an illness would find neither of them in any condition to resist 
it. She went the dreary round of it all again and again, beat on the 
various doors so coldly closed, their attempted work, their letters to 
their poor relations in the South, their uninterested connections in 



260 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

the North and found herself down among the shops, in an unac- 
customed part of the city, with the short sunlight of midwinter fading 
fast. She felt utterly exhausted, and, stopping in front of a shop, 
looked vacantly in at its display of silver, while she tried to think how 
she could answer this sudden demand of her weakness. To drag all 
those long streets through before she rested or broke her fast a fast 
that had lasted since breakfast it seemed impossible. She drew out 
her purse and looked in it. Two or three small pieces of silver jingled 
together. Dinner could tr.ke care of itself, eat she must, and rest she 
must. Now the question was, where? She turned off the populated 
streets and walked slowly down the length of one less frequented. 

A sign, " Fried oysters, ten cents," caught her eye. The room into 
which she looked was down a few steps from the street, but it looked 
clean and decent, and had a sanded floor. She descended the steps and 
went in; a number of little tables stood about; at three or four of 
them men were sitting eating, and drinking the ale whose representa- 
tion was painted in a large tankard on a sign at the door. She dropped 
into a chair at one of the tables and, leaning back, half closed her eyes. 
It seemed like a sort of paradise, this place, with its clean, marble-top 
tables and its reviving smell of freshly cooked food. A waiter came 
to her ; she ordered fried oysters, and " How much is tea ?" she asked. 

" Five cents a cup." 

" And the oysters ?" 

" Ten cents." 

" Very well, I will have both," and she turned those melancholy 
blue eyes of hers upon him. He stared not unpleasantly at her and 
went his way on her errand. 

She sat there resting for a few moments, her lids drooped; then, 
settling herself comfortably in her chair, she noted the details about 
her with a sort of friendly pleasure. 

The walls were painted a not unpleasant yellow, the china was 
ornamented with a not unpleasant blue line, there was a stove towards 
the back, near a little desk, and the crop-headed man who sat at the 
desk had a decent, not unpleasant face. Life was not quite all black 
then ; if the tea was good, there were even little spots of gray ! That 
tea how she hungered for it. She leant her arms on the table and 
looked with covert interest at her fellow-guests in this little haven. 

Two big, burly Germans, talking their own tongue; it was not 
among her accomplishments; she thought with a pang how ignorant 
she was; a leather-cheeked, dyspeptic little man with a hooked nose 
and tired eyes all creased about with anxious thought he has a bad 
time too, she thought; two more shambling old fellows, nondescript 
in class and type, and a man buried in a newspaper opposite her, with 
a flaming gas-jet over his head. She stared idly at the printed sheet, 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 261 

then her eyes fixed on the hands that held it strong, brown, but un- 
mistakable hands, showing their station, not only in the spotless cuffs 
and gold links, but in the look of the fingers. She was staring at them 
when he lowered his paper and showed her a heavily frowning face, 
whose eyes gazed straight into hers. She did not have time to drop 
her lids. There was a second's complete meeting between them ; then 
the girPs lids dropped, a soft color flooded her face, and she turned 
and looked out of the wide sheet of glass near her up towards the 
street above. 

" Oysters," said the waiter, " and tea," and he deposited them on 
her table, and in a friendly spirit brought sauce and pepper and every 
addition that the place granted free. 

She was very grateful for his attention, and began to eat her 
oysters while still screened by his fluttering presence; but at last he 
withdrew, and she felt, without looking up, that she still came under 
the searching glance of those angry eyes. 

"Why should he be so put about," she thought, drinking her tea, 
" when he has money, and probably did not have to marry to get it ? 
Free and rich ah!" and she steadily proceeded, trying to free her- 
self from self-consciousness. She could busy her eyes on her plate, 
but her cheeks kept their unaccustomed color, and she could not pre- 
vent her thin fingers from trembling a little. She had finished at 
last; he had half spoiled her little meal, but she felt like another 
creature all the same, so strengthened and refreshed. The waiter stood 
ready beside her. Drawing out her purse, she paid him; then, rising, 
drew on her gloves and stood a moment while she buttoned her coat 
before going out into the dark. As she stood there she had an im- 
pulse too strong to be resisted, and raising her eyes she looked across 
to the young man with a frown. 

He was still looking at her, but the frown was gone, and in its 
place an expression so friendly, so sympathetic, so near kindly speech, 
that she felt as though a hand had been held out to her. She for- 
got the conventions and answered it with a look of response a faint 
smile that held her gratitude; then, realizing suddenly her surround- 
ings, she walked out the door with a rapid step that swept her up the 
steps and down the street with speed. She had not gone half a block, 
however, before she heard a step behind her that came beside her, and 
a voice that said, 

" May I walk a little way with you ?" 

She lifted her head proudly and turned to meet this new acquaint- 
ance. She was prepared with a chilling rejoinder, but something in 
his face disarmed her, and between her bitterness and her longing for 
sympathy she answered in another way, 

" I see no serious objection, if you want to." 



262 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

He smiled down at her. Even her slender height left him some 
inches above her. 

" You look very tired and not very happy, and I feel so thor- 
oughly the reverse of satisfied with life myself that I felt we were 
fellow-sufferers and might exchange a word' or two of sympathy, do 
you see ?" 

It set things on a possible footing. She looked gratefully back at 
him. 

" Are you unhappy too ?" she said. " You looked very, very angry 
about something, but you can't be in my plight, for I I shall kill 
my soul or my body in the next few months." 

There was a moment of silence while they walked along together; 
but she had no regret for her frankness; she longed to unburden her 
mind, and felt curiously assured of his comprehension. 

" That sounds pretty bad." His answer came very deliberately. 
" There must be some way out of that, surely ; but just to begin with, 
it isn't wisdom for you to be about alone around this part of town so 
late. Your people " 

" I haven't any," she interrupted. " I had to walk off my thoughts, 
and I did not see how far I had gone, and then I felt almost faint. I 
don't usually go into little places of that kind." 

" You see where I feel I can speak to you," he went on ; " another 
man might be rude. You won't do it again, will you? You haven't 
a face that it is wise to leave so unprotected." 

Her color deepened in the dark ; the touch of the personal made her 
realize how strange her conduct was. She stopped. 

" I turn off here," she said. " Thank you for your your friendly 
interest, but I must hurry home ; I have far to go." 

" How far ?" He had stopped also. 

" To Fifty-first Street." 

" You are going to walk there ?" 

" If I want to arrive at all." The gas-lamp near revealed that 
lovely, melancholy smile of hers, the light shone on her delicate beauty, 
and left plainly to be seen the wretched inadequacy of her wraps. He 
had an impulse. He hesitated and temporized. 

" Let me walk a little farther with you," he said, " at least until 
you get out of this part of the town." 

She shook her head. " I don't mind, I'm used to it, and you have 
friends to join, probably ; I shall make you late ; good-by." 

Something in her voice brought home the contrast of their lives. 
" Friends to join." It was quite true, if he wanted them, but at this 
moment he did not want them in the very least. He had only one 
real desire, and it grew suddenly stronger not to lose sight of her 
quite so soon, so utterly. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 263 

" I can't bear to let you go like this," he began gently. " Let me 
take you home. I'll get a cab if you're tired. May I not be like a 
friend for an hour ?" 

She stood quite still, looking down at her muff. Her lack of re- 
sponse drew him on. 

" For an hour, or even two ; why not ? You are not prone to 
making friends so quickly, but I think you and I have had good luck 
in meeting. Let me take you or send you home, if you like it better, 
and then let us dine together; how would that be?" He stopped a 
moment, and then added : " I am somewhat of a stranger here, and 
you need cheering. Can't you trust me to mean nothing but good 
towards you ? Come nearer the lamp and see if you can discover any- 
thing else in my face." 

She took the two steps needful. They stood beneath the lamp and 
she looked straight into his face; her own brightly flushed with color. 

He had a countenance whose unhappy, almost desperate, expression 
could not harden the fine lines. His restless, dissatisfied eyes were 
set wide apart. His stern mouth only betrayed honesty of purpose 
and a fine habit of life. She hesitated. She wanted so much to 
snatch this brief cup of pleasure, but a horrible fear contracted her 
heart. She panted under the pressure of it. 

" You are honest," she returned, her lip trembling, " but it is 
possible you are quite mistaking me. I am, strange as my conduct 
may seem to you, I am a lady. To-day in allowing you to speak to 
me I have departed from the traditions of my class, but I have been 
driven so nearly desperate that I I " 

She turned from him, and, clinching her hands in her muff, tried 
to hold down the sob rising in her throat. 

He made a step towards her. She would have guessed how uncer- 
tain had been his ideas of her if she had turned and seen the color in 
his face. 

" Mistake you ?" he said. " If I had been fool enough for a 
moment to do so do you credit me with no perception? I know 
exactly how you have been moved, and I ask you to accept from me 
what any cousin anj intimate friend might offer you. We will 
go to Murger's and dine quietly. There is surely no reason against 
it, once given that you trust me and I understand you. We will be 
chaperoned by the whole cafe; any woman may go and dine with a 
man she knows; there is no impropriety in it unless you have ac- 
quaintances who know your list of friends so thoroughly that they will 
find my being among them peculiar. That's the only risk you run, 
surely." 

" I have no acquaintances, no friends," Mary answered him gently. 
" I will go. There are only conventions against it what have con- 
ventions done for me that I should uphold them ? I will do it." 



264 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

" Good/' he responded. " Then I will put you in a cab ; it will 
take you home and wait for you, and I will meet you at Murger's. 
What do you think of that ?" 

She nodded, and they walked in silence towards an avenue where 
the rattle of the wheels suggested that he might find a conveyance. 
They had gone but a block when he hailed a hansom; it stopped by 
the curb. While she got in he spoke to the driver, and, leaning over 
the wheel, his hat off, he held out his hand. 

" In an hour, it is six o'clock now," he said, " I will be waiting for 
you. Will you give him the address ?" 

She put her hand in his for one brief moment; he stepped back; 
she gave the number to the man and drove off, seeing him standing 
hatless on the pavement, looking after her. 

Mary sank back in the corner of the cab, and, with her eyes fixed 
on the lights as they passed swiftly by, she reviewed the last hour 
deiberately, and with a tightening of her lips made up her mind 
to question the wisdom of her action no longer, but to gather from 
the hour all that it held of pleasure and fulness of life. It bloomed 
in her dreary existence like a bed of roses, and when she got out at 
the door of her lodging-house her step was elastic. 

She reached her room. Mrs. Peyton was resting on the bed. She 
opened her eyes, closed them, and paid no attention to the girl's quiet 
movements about her. Mary changed one shabby dress for another, 
all black, but it had something more of charm in its simple lines. Her 
fair hair she arranged with trembling, solicitous fingers white fingers, 
ringless, but with a delicacy of shape which was in keeping with the 
extreme refinement of her beauty. Her gloves were hopeless the 
fingers mended, the palms almost white. Her boots were presentable, 
it not being necessary to expose the thin sole, which she had worn 
through to the ground. Her coat she put on again the worn garment 
she had taken off, and, replacing again the little black velvet toque 
on her head, took up her muff and turned towards the door. Her 
aunt was asleep. She took a half sheet of paper and wrote on it, and 
left it on the bureau: 

. 

" I am going to dine with a friend ; I can tell you about 
it when I come home. " MAEY." 

The few words pursued her as she fled down the stairs, out into 
the darkness, and into the cab. She gave the man no direction, but 
he knew where to go; and again she began her unaccustomed progress 
through the lamp-lit streets. 

Merely to be driving at that hour was enough to excite her to 
keenest pleasure, and she dared not let her thoughts travel ahead to 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 265 

what lay before her, lest she should arrive dumb and trembling at her 
destination. 

It did not seem to her that she had driven half the distance she 
had expected when the cab left the wide, asphalted avenue and, turning 
a corner, stopped before a brightly lighted doorway over which hung 
an electric globe. The doors of the cab opened; she stood a moment 
poised on the step; her heart failed her; she felt as though she could 
not enter that door alone. It was only a second before she felt someone 
take her hand and help her down. 

It was her host. He led the way up the steps among the coming 
and going of men, and through a hall into a room brilliantly lit and 
filled with tables, all of which seemed to her unused eyes to be occupied. 
She followed him blindly as he threaded his way among the tables, 
and she found herself seated with her profile turned to the crowd at 
a table in the corner of the room. A big palm-tree behind her cut her 
off from the people back of them and gave her a sense of protection. 
She leaned back and drew a deep breath of relief. 

Opposite was her host, speaking to a waiter. It took some time to 
settle a point. It did not occur to her that he had noticed her pallor 
and gave her this moment to recover herself. A sense of composure 
crept over her, she looked about, and while they ate their oysters 
he talked of the place, the cooking, and the people who congregated 
there. He pointed out one or two characters of reputation. The room 
was almost entirely filled with men, many of them strangers, many 
foreigners. As Mary listened her heart beat with a quieter throb, and 
looking into the young man's face, she studied it out. He had a 
square, handsome brow in which were set dark eyes, whose long corners 
gave depth and brilliancy to his glance, a bold outline of feature, and 
a full-lipped, eager, restless mouth that closed in aggressive lines. In 
the beginning of the evening he had asked her what wine she drank, 
and she had refused any, but she needed no medium to color the scene 
about her with brilliancy, to invest her companion with a perilous 
charm. The warm, brightly lit room, so contrasting with her usual 
surroundings, the crowd of talking, laughing people, whose responsi- 
bilities were for the moment certainly in abeyance, the atmosphere of 
spontaneous pleasure-seeking, with no alarming emphasis on the ab- 
sence of protection, made her step for a time into another world. Her 
color rose; the lovely melancholy of her smile changed to gayety 
in the ripple of her lip, and only lingered about her eyes, whose blue, 
like summer skies, gained depth and dazzled him. Their talk took a 
more personal note, but it was all light-hearted folly, that led nowhere, 
borne of any inconsequent thought of the moment, and it was not till 
the salad was on the table that it turned to other things. 

Her companion filled his glass with the light hock he was drinking, 
and, raising it to his lips, bowed to her over the brim. 



266 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

" Your health, and good-luck to you," he said. " We have talked 
of so many outside things, but no word of your troubles. Are per- 
sonalities quite barred? May I ask something a little nearer home 
than your opinion of the brick facings of the opera-house? I want to 
know what made you speak such hopeless words to-day. May I not 
know? Don't you yet believe I am a friend? It don't take time to 
make a friend, does it, any more than to lose one? It can all be done 
in an hour." 

" I don't think I know much about it," she answered slowly. 
" What do you do ? Do you make friends easily ? Do you keep your 
doors hospitably open for anyone to walk in?" She leant her elbow 
on the table and smiled. " You didn't look it this afternoon." 

He stared into her eyes as they made such thorough scrutiny of 
him. " What do I do ?" He leant back and gave a look about the 
room, in which he saw nothing of the people about him, but an inward 
prospect that brought a terrible note of bitterness to his voice. 

For a moment he stared past tangible things and lost himself in 
the vision of that little scene he had gone over so often. He sat in 
the darkened room with the hateful unveiled point of the gas-jet 
thrust in his face and looked past it into the stern countenance that 
delivered its terrible verdict. He heard his own voice in its unemo- 
tional quiet repeating the words : " So I am going blind, Doctor, that's 
it, is it ?" Then the quick question added, " How long do you give 
me ?" The low-spoken response, " A year, hardly more, perhaps less ;" 
then a sense of darkness silence and the vision was over and he still 
leant on his elbow in the restaurant amid the lights and sounds about 
him. He pulled himself together and steadied his eyes on the girl 
before him; vaguely her last words and his own interrupted answer 
came back to him. 

" What do I do ?" he went on. " Why, no one wants to know what 
one does nowadays, it is what one has that interests them. It is 
hard to describe my actions, they have so resembled lately a clown 
at the circus first up and then down. I used to be the devil to 
work, but now now I am the devil to play ! Friends ! I used to 
make friends, now I am occupied in losing them." 

She had forgotten that to be frankly absorbed in a man is not con- 
ventionally permitted, and her intense gaze was like a spell on him; 
usually savagely reticent about himself, he opened the gates and let 
out the flood. 

" I am a lawyer," he rested both arms on the table, " I used to 
be, that is; I meant to be a judge, and a great judge too, and have a 
share in framing the laws of the country you see what a fool I was ! 
But life gave a turn to the wheel, and whirr ! it went round again, and 
I I went to the devil." 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 267 

" Don't/' said the girl, " please please, it isn't true." 

" Isn't it ?" He smiled into her eyes. " Perhaps it isn't quite 
true, but it's rather like it, and if you ask my friends they would say, 
' Yea, yea,' in their sorrow. But I didn't mean to talk of this, to 
switch off on my follies; I meant to ask you what prompted those 
miserable words of yours this afternoon. ' Once in seven years one 
man has need of another,' that's the proverb, isn't it? Well, I'm 
not bad in my judgment for my friends, though I have made such a 
mess of my own life. Tell me freely, frankly, what is the trouble." 

She in her turn leant her elbow on the table and looked down at 
the cloth. 

" Shall I ?" Her face changed even as she spoke. " Do you want 
to hear of petty trials that gain power from their accumulation and 
end by urging one to desperation?" She raised her eyes to his, the 
pupils dilated. " Well, then, you shall have it. I live with my aunt. 
We had enough to support life with scant comfort until last year, then 
some of her money was lost; we have now enough to pay our rent and 
keep body and soul together. It is impossible, it seems, for either of 
us to get work. We have tried. Now, one month ago came a new 
difficulty. We made acquaintance with a man in our lodging-house; 
a friend of his met me on the stairs and elected to fall in love with 
me." Her lip curled, then closed with a bitter pressure; she went 
on : " He got to know us, he asked us to dine, he came constantly to 
see us, he sent me flowers ah, well, the upshot was he proposed to 
marry me, and Aunt Mary urges me to accept, and I I would far 
rather starve." 

There was intense silence on his part, his eyes taking startled note 
of her beauty. She spoke again. 

"I don't know what you think," she raised her chin proudly, 
"but I think to marry a man you dislike, for his money, is no better 
than selling yourself to him in some other way." Her eyes blazed a 
moment, then suddenly the light went out of them. "At least," she 
added slowly, " that is what I think when I am alone ; when I am with 
Aunt Mary it all seems different." 

He pushed his plate from him. " Stick to it," his low voice was 
emphatic. "Don't pay any attention to Aunt Mary; have patience. 
Things at their worst take a turn. You will have another offer from 
someone you do like have patience." 

The girl shook her head. " Ah, that's not likely ; we see no one." 

" Other people see you," he returned. " Do you think there are 
faces like yours on every bush ?" 

She gave a weary shake of her head. The waiter had put fruit 
before them ; he brought the coffee. She played with a little spoon a 
moment, then looked up at him with a smile that gave him a thrill and 



268 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

reminded him of a summer's early dawn. He put out his hand for a 
bit of bread ; it brought his fingers near hers ; he stared at her delicate, 
white hand. 

"Be faithful to yourself," he said; "resist this apparent oppor- 
tunity. You will be loved many times, perhaps, but among them once, 
after all, you will love. Wait for it ; it will be worth your patience/' 

She raised her cup of coffee, but set it down untasted; her hand 
trembled so much that she could not trust it to reach her lips. In 
that moment she knew what was happening to her, and, fearing he 
would read her face, she dropped her lids over her burning eyes and 
drew a deep breath. 

" Don't you see/' went on the young man, " you have only to be 
patient? You are young. How old twenty?" 

She looked at him. " Twenty-two," she answered. 

" Twenty-two," he repeated ; " well, whole, sound, and free. Why, 
my dear child, it seems like blasphemy to think of wrecking your life 
now." 

She looked at him still. She had gotten her heart to beating 
quietly now and feared no tell-tale blush. " Only, you know," she 
said, " we hardly eat ; it cannot go on forever like that ; one gets sick, 
and that's a long step worse than dying." 

" Dying," he repeated slowly. " What do you know of dying that 
you talk of it so lightly ? Have you ever tried it ?" 

" No, no," the girl shrank a little ; " it has never come to that." 

"Nor shall it." He put out his hand on the table, palm upward, 
and smiled into her eyes. " I can't ask you to lay your hand in mine, 
here, but I do, morally speaking. Consider that I clasp your fingers 
as a friend, and as money is not what I lack at present, you will share 
mine." 

She remained silent, a whitening of her cheek her only answer. 

"You think that impossible," he went on. "When I tell you 
frankly that I was but frankness is folly, isn't it? Why should I 
burden you with more trouble ? Let us forget these serious things, talk 
of light ones. Where shall we spend the rest of our evening, for in- 
stance do you care for the play?" 

She shook her head, the color gathering on her cheek. 

" I tell you," he cried, " I have it ; I'll get a hansom, and we'll 
have a drive before I leave you at home. What do you say ? I should 
like that would you?" 

She looked at him and set her teeth. She would drink her cup. 

" If we can go for an hour I must not be late," she said. 

" Gome, then ;" he rose, and as they left the room she met the eyes 
levelled at her with a high lifting of her graceful head. He had 
brought two coats, it seemed, by some marvellous forethought, and as 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 269 

they started out into the night she let him wrap a fur-lined great-coat 
about her without a word. ' The young man leant back in his corner of 
the hansom and smiled gayly at her. The cold night air was delicious; 
the stars were thick overhead; she felt the warm wrap like a human 
protection; it stood between her and everything that life could fling 
at her; it shut out cold, loneliness, neglect, and weariness. She rested 
in her corner and looked at him with such an expression of happiness 
that it brought a shining light to his eyes. 

" This, this," he cried, " redeems many black days. Fm glad I 
didn't get quite drowned in the ice a month ago; for the first time 
I'm glad." 

" Don't, don't," she said. 

" You don't want me not to be glad ?" he laughed. 

" I don't want to hear you talk so of your life," she answered. 

"I won't." He leant his head back, his long, almond-shaped eyes 
gleaming. " I won't. I don't know why I rattle my skeleton so per- 
sistently in your ears. Do you know I am thought a devil-may-care, 
cheerful kind of person by my friends, but you you agitate the depths 
somehow. Is it your beauty, I wonder, or " 

" Please," the girl leant on the door and looked out as they 
entered the park, " please like me, not my face." 

" Mayn't I like both ?" He watched her profile in the lamplight. 

" Yes," she smiled, " but me best, please." 

He laughed. " One is easier to take in than the other. I'm rather 
afraid of you, even more than of your beauty I mean your face; I 
beg your pardon; you don't want compliments." 

" No," she answered slowly, " I don't want compliments. I want" 
she stopped; it was a dangerous hesitation, her heart beat. 

"You don't know what, is that it?" he ended. "That's the way 
with women until they break something finding out. Now I I know 
what I want, but I know equally well that I may not have it. Turn 
and look at me." His tone was imperative. She obeyed him. 

" Ah, those eyes of yours ;" his voice shook. " See I'm in deep 
water again. Let us laugh for an hour and then I'll tell you the 
end of my sentence. Come, you must have a pleasant memory among 
the others;" and leaning his arms beside hers on the door, he began 
a rigmarole of light-hearted nonsense about the trees, the starlight, 
the horses, the fairies, demons, and witches that inhabited the green 
silences about them, and so led her into an intimate folly of laughter 
that carried them on through the park and down a stretch of deserted 
boulevard and back to the park gates again. 

" Your number ?" it sounded a little uncertain from his clear voice. 
She gave it to him, and it took so few moments to reach the street in 
which she lived that she was dazed as they arrived at the door. 



270 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

" You will hear from me to-morrow morning ;" he sprang out and 
lifted her down, and, going up the steps, he rang the bell. " This 
might have been the happiest night of my life had I been less the 
plaything of the gods as it is, I shall never see you again. I am 

afraid even to stay a moment longer I might " He caught her 

hand in a hard pressure, raised his hat as the door opened, and, de- 
scending the steps, he drove away as she mounted the staircase within. 

The room was dimly lit by a low-turned gas-jet, but Mrs. Peyton 
started up from the bed as Mary entered. 

" My dear/' she cried, and reaching the bureau she turned up the 
light, " where have you been ?" 

The girl faced her with so white a countenance that her curiosity 
gave way to solicitude. 

" Child/' she added, taking her muff and drawing off her coat, 
" what has happened are you ill ?" 

Mary's eyes met hers. 

" No," she answered, " but very tired, Aunt Mary. I'll rest a 
moment before I begin my story. I understand your impatience, but 
] am so very tired." 

She slipped down into the one armchair the room boasted, and 
letting her head rest on her folded arms laid them on the high arm 
of the chair. Mrs. Peyton sat down on the foot of the bed and waited. 
She had not to wait long. With a deep-drawn breath Mary straight- 
ened her shoulders and raised her head; then, lifting her hat off, she 
put it on her knees, and drawing out the two long hat pins, she looked 
at her aunt. 

" I will begin," she said, and in a colorless voice she told her what 
had happened, how they had met, of their dinner together, and their 
drive; and then at the end she rose suddenly and began putting her 
things away. " I'll go to bed," she added. 

Mrs. Peyton listened breathlessly, interjecting eager questions. She 
came over and caught the girl by the arm. 

"Do you think Anders might have seen you?" she said. "Think! 
it might undo everything." 

Mary looked up at her. " Aunt," she answered hurriedly, " do you 
think most people would think it very shocking of me to have done it ?" 

" Shocking," returned Mrs. Peyton slowly, " I should say so ; only 
it is just this sort of thing our way of life might lead to. Don't you 
eee it? Don't you see it?" 

The girl's face quivered. She made a little gesture and dropped 
her arms at her side. 

" Good-night," she murmured, her voice sounding faint and hoarse. 
"I must rest; don't, don't talk to me. aunt." And it was in absolute 
silence that thev went to bed. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 271 

ii. 

THE morning lightened slowly. It was nine o'clock when Mrs. 
Peyton woke. She saw her niece standing dressed to go out, drawing 
on her gloves. 

She leant on her elbow and looked at her curiously. 

" My dear, why this haste ?" 

It was her own habit to be late; she declared that those who eat 
little should sleep much. 

" I'm going out to look for work, aunt ; I will not be in till the 
afternoon. I will take some money and get my lunch." 

She opened the drawer they kept locked and took out a small sum, 
placed it in her purse, and, locking the drawer again, put the key on 
her aunt's table. " I have made your coffee," she went on, and brought 
the tray to the bedside ; " I have had mine. Do you want a book ?" 

Mrs. Peyton nodded. 

Mary brought her two volumes on which the name " Anders" was 
written across the paper front and put them on the bed; turning 
towards the door, she had her hand on the knob when Mrs. Peyton's 
voice arrested her. 

"And your visit from Mr. Anders," she asked; "am I to receive it 
alone?" 

The girl met her eyes. " Since you will not consent not to receive 
it at all." 

Mrs. Peyton leant over and poured out her coffee. " Mary, you 
are a fool," she said, "but your struggle is ineffectual. You will 
marry that man." 

A moment's silence followed, and in it the girl left the room. She 
stopped a moment in the hall ; there was a letter for her. She picked 
it up with fingers that trembled and opened the door and went out. 
Standing in the vestibule, she tore open her letter without a moment's 
waiting. There were only a few lines, and a roll of bills : 

" Be patient he will come, that other man. Wait for 

him. When you need help, write to me at the Club 

(he named the great neighboring city). I shall never cease to 
care for you. " DACRE STAHB." 

The girl stood a moment looking out into the frozen street; then, 
pushing the notes back into the envelope, she walked into a little shop 
not far from there. She bought a sheet of paper and an envelope and 
a stamp, and without a word wrapped the money in the paper and, 
sealing it, .addressed it with steady fingers; then, going to the nearest 
box, she posted it. Buying a paper, she took the addresses of people 



272 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

who wanted governesses or companions, and making a note of them 
began her weary round. The day passed as other days had done. She 
paused in the middle of it to take some hot coffee and some rolls at a 
big, bustling place, where other people were taking their inadequate 
meals, and then started out again on her search. 

They had such good reasons, the people who refused her services. 
Did she speak French ? No. It was a sine qua non with the lady who 
asked the question. The next woman wanted German another music 
a third reference for other things than character, that the clergyman 
of her church had given her with some hesitation, moved by her dignity 
and beauty. 

At four o'clock she sat in a drawing-room, the charm of which 
rested and refreshed her, exhausted as she was, but with the owner of 
it she got no further than with the other women with whom she had 
talked. 

" I must have some assurance that you are competent to teach." 
Mrs. Faragood was impatient by temperament, quick of tongue. 

"I understand," Mary answered gently, "one has to make a be- 
ginning; everyone has to do that. I'm sorry I have so much to learn, 
but if you would " 

" If I would let you educate yourself on my children," finished 
Mrs. Faragood, "you would be obliged to me. I see, but I am really 
not so altruistic as that comes to." 

The girl stood up; it was quite fair, she didn't blame anyone, 
only she was in no state to bear the sting of the quick speech, and she 
buttoned her coat with fingers that shook. She couldn't speak. She 
bowed her head and turned to the door. 

Her hostess felt a pang. " I'm sorry," she said. " I suppose you 
need the work, but you understand " 

" I understand very well," the answer was spoken low ; " good- 
afternoon," and Mrs. Faragood was alone. 

Mary opened the front door for herself and shut it with a clang be- 
hind her; it was heavy and had a very final sound; it seemed to say 
she was quite done for, and the idea echoed in her heart. 

She walked slowly, painfully towards home. The lamps were being 
lit; the servants were drawing the curtains in all the houses, and it 
seemed as though it was such a little step to get into the warmth and 
brightness shut in there, and yet such a gulf yawned between her and 
those well-lined nests. It occurred to her that the people in tenement- 
houses must be even more cold and cheerless than she was; but no, 
for they at least had neighbors to whom they talked a community 
of sorrow, and she she stood so fearfully alone. There was Aunt 
Peyton, but this hateful business of Anders stood between them like a 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 273 

wall. She walked very slowly and looked at the passers-by, and won- 
dered if she would have found them friends had she known them; 
then, suddenly thinking she might be misinterpreted for her curious 
glances, she hurried on, a smarting color in her cheek at the thought 
of the impropriety she had so lately committed; and so checked, half 
starved, and bleeding inwardly, she reached the door and, stumbling 
up the stairs, entered the room. 

Mrs. Peyton was sitting sewing, an expression of great content- 
ment on her face. She looked up and, putting down her work, smiled 
at the newcomer. 

" Unsuccessful, I see," she remarked placidly. " Well, my dear, I 
have arranged your matters excellently ; sit down and I will tell you all 
about it." 

Mary dropped down on the bedside. 

"What do you mean?" she said. Her spent voice sounded almost 
fierce. " You have promised nothing for me to Mr. Anders ?" 

" Nothing," returned her aunt ; " he only asked that he may be a 
friend. Your dignity won't be compromised by that, I suppose, and 
we are to dine with him to-night at The Cranford, quietly in a private 
room, no fatigue for you. Surely, my dear, you won't refuse this ?" 

The girl took off her hat and coat and gloves, and, holding her 
hands up to the gas to warm them, looked down to the eager eyes 
raised to hers. 

" You want very much to go, aunt," she said slowly. " Are you 
sure he understands that I that I hate him ?" 

" Quite sure," Mrs. Peyton's eyes gleamed with a sort of sardonic 
humor, " and as far as I am concerned, do you ask a man serving 
a term in the penitentiary whether he would like to dine out in the 
world again with a friend who has not forgotten him ?" 

" I see." The girl threw herself on the bed. " I suppose there is 
nothing wrong in it. I will go if you wish." 

Mrs. Peyton came over and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. 

" Thank you, my dear, it commits you to nothing, and I well, 
I am a materialist, I suppose, but God knows my tastes are not often 
gratified. It seems to me so pleasant to think of dining again at a 
Christian hour at a well-set table. 

There came a knock at the door as she finished speaking. She 
opened it, and the servant put two boxes in her hand, and gave her a 
look of curiosity as she did so. Mrs. Peyton closed the door and read 
the addresses. One was her name and the other Mary's. With eager 
fingers she undid hers, and opening the mauve-colored pasteboard box 
she took out a big bunch of violets, shielded by its cover of tissue. 

" My dear," she turned to Mary, holding the flowers pressed to 



274 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

her lips, " are you dead to pleasure, and are flowers like this nothing 
to you ? Shall I open yours and put them in water ?" 

"It depends on the giver." Mary turned away and buried her 
face in her pillow. If they had come from another source, would 
she have left the box for Mrs. Peyton to open ? Ah, what a little time 
it takes to make a fool of a woman ! She felt a sob rising in her throat, 
and squeezed the slender pipe with both hands. 

Mrs. Peyton opened the other box, and taking another bunch of 
violets from its nest, set them both in a cup on the bureau and then 
turned to Mary. 

" Eest, child," she said. " I will sew a bit of lace on your dress 
and brush your skirt; we might be decent, since we cannot be fine. 
Go to sleep now." 

Mary shut her eyes with a sharp feeling of relief that she could 
accept the suggestion, and in a moment she floated off into a curious 
world where things were arranged to suit her, and Anders married 
Mrs. Peyton. 

The room into which Mrs. Peyton and Mary were ushered bore 
tokens of a lengthy habitation. The personality of their host was 
shadowed plainly forth. Luxury carried past the usual point where 
a man's wishes stop and on to where a woman's begin warmth, color, 
beauty. Mrs. Peyton heaved a sigh of pleasure as she sank into a big, 
stuffed chair and touched its dark-red velvet covering with her appre- 
ciative fingers. 

" Look at those books, my dear," she said softly as the girl sat 
near the fire and, drawing off her gloves, warmed her numbed fingers, 
and Mary obediently looked. 

There were shelves of yellow-paper-backed volumes and more 
shelves filled with the heterogeneous bindings the American publisher 
showers on an outraged public, and running along the other wall 
sober-looking lines of English books. Above them were photographs 
and pictures any subject, any time, any master, but most of them 
worth looking at whether they were the last piece of daring perpetrated 
by a Frenchman or an etching by Albrecht Durer. 

" I beg your pardon for not being here to welcome you," said a 
voice, and the two women turned towards the young man who ap- 
proached them. He shook hands with Mrs. Peyton, and for one 
moment Mary's fingers lay in his, then he leant against the mantel- 
piece and looked down at her. " I took Pendleton to my room to wash 
his hands. He has just turned up from the West and I told him you 
ladies would forgive him for not appearing in evening dress, as our 
meeting was informal at any rate." The door opened as he finished 
speaking and a fair, bronzed man made a somewhat diffident entry. 

" When you say West," began Mrs. Peyton gayly as she shook 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 275 

hands with him, " what do you mean ? the Mississippi or the 
Eockies ?" 

" Can't you see," answered Anders, laughing, " that real wild, 
woolly look? That never reckoned from Chicago. Mr. Pendleton is 
the genuine article with a grain ranch in Idaho/' 

Mrs. Peyton turned to the newcomer with enthusiasm. " Have 
you really ?" she said. " Then I suppose you are either owned by a 
railroad or you own it ; that is according to my great authority, ' The 
Octopus/ " and Pendleton, sitting beside her, proceeded to rebut her 
accusations with facts beaten out on the palm of his hand. 

Anders sat down by Mary and glanced at the slender fingers she 
still held to the blaze, though they had been warmed long since. 

" Pen. is a good chap," he remarked in a low voice. " You would 
like him, he is so honest and staunch, so utterly without guile." 

She looked at him in silence. Since he knew her tastes so well, 
she thought, why did he think he could ever suit them. He read her 
face. 

" Quite another sort of person, isn't he?" he went on, smiling, "but 
it takes all kinds to make a world, and you'd find him very exasperating 
too. He never can see that things have two sides." 

" I'm made the same way," she returned slowly. " I prefer stand- 
ing on rock even if it isn't as soft as sand." 

Anders laughed. 

"What's the matter with solid earth?" he said. "It strikes me 
as a fair medium. I wonder," he added with a caressing intimacy in 
his voice that gave the girl a sense of recoil, " I wonder how you ever 
arrived at your uncompromising doctrines. They don't belong to the 
present day, and certainly Mrs. Peyton was not your teacher. Your 
people come from the South too, don't they? Where did you stumble 
into the Puritan code that guides you ?" 

She made a gesture of protest. " I am not a Puritan," she said. 
" I am quite willing that other people should enjoy themselves as they 
please, but I like to breathe the atmosphere that suits me." 

"Which is?" he questioned quickly. 

" Oh," she turned to the fire, " a chilly air that would not meet your 
views at all." 

The young man drew his chair so that he could look straight into 
her eyes. 

" What right have you to decide what would suit me," he demanded, 
" when you have never taken the trouble to know me in the slightest ? 
Will you never even look at me long enough to find out that I am not 
the monster you take me for ?" He half laughed as he spoke, and held 
the gaze she had turned on him with the exaction of his will. 

If she had liked him, she would have thought the aquiline cast 



276 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

of his features handsome ; the quick, shifting intelligence that gleamed 
from his gray eyes would have attracted her; the full curves of his 
mouth would have announced his keen sense of wit as well as his over- 
powering love of pleasure. Ten years before he must have been a 
handsome boy, but the indulgence of his senses was written in every 
curve of his face, and no desire to please could efface those marks. 
Every ideal instinct of her youth and her peculiar nature leapt back 
from the passion he offered her ; if there were pleasure in such a rela- 
tion, she felt she would rather starve than debase herself by enjoying 
it. Suddenly for the first time she felt a desire to speak to him freely, 
to emerge from the reserve behind which she had barricaded herself 
for the last month and make a sortie. 

" Won't you understand me ?" she said passionately. " I do not 
mistake what you are only I am not not for you nor you for me. 
We are at the poles. I beg and plead that you will no longer pursue 
this idea of yours. I am ignorant, untaught, foolish in many ways, 
but I have a saving grace I know myself and I am not I am not for 

you.- 

Anders stared down into her lovely eyes. There seemed to rise a 
sort of fragrance from her as she spoke a perfumed flame of youth 
and innocence and beauty. It seemed to him the most to be desired of 
anything that he in all his voyages had ever met. 

" Wait," he said. " Say you are not for me if you will, but I I 
must decide the other, and I am yours as naturally, as uncontrollably, 
as irresistibly, as the tides follow the moon." 

The girl made a little movement of resistance, but there could be 
no more speech between them, for the door opened and the man an- 
nounced dinner. 

Anders rose and offered his arm to Mrs. Peyton. " Pendleton, will 
you take Miss Ronalds?" he said, and they passed into the dining- 
room. 

Dinner was over. They left the table with its glittering glass, its 
fruit and flowers, behind them, and returned to the drawing-room, and 
permission being asked and granted, the men brought their cigars with 
them. 

Mrs. Peyton established herself and Pendleton at a big table covered 
with photographs he had just brought from the West, and gratified 
her keen curiosity about life from any new stand-point, while the 
bearded ranchman enjoyed the rare pleasure of hearing his own voice 
only interrupted by the appreciative comments of a woman. 

Mary had gone back to her seat by the fire. She could not get 
enough of its blaze; she rested her slippers on the little, low fender 
and shaded her eyes from the red, hot light by a fan she found on the 
Reside her. As Anders put a lump of sugar in her coffee and 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 277 

handed her the cup, he slipped down beside her in the corner of the long 
divan. 

There was a silence between them, at least, he felt, he had arrived 
at the intimacy that permits such a silence, and he studied her face 
with the keenness of an experienced sportsman. It was beyond him, 
however, to calculate the power of spirits whose governance he had 
never known. She had enjoyed her dinner, drank her glass of wine 
with pleasure, talked and laughed with Pendleton without her usual 
reserve, and Anders, noting all this, felt an eager hope that he would 
find the path to her sensibilities, at least, more easy. He was quite 
mistaken, it was the other result that had been achieved. The relaxa- 
tion, the warmth, the glow, had revived her fainting courage, and with 
her nature, to sustain its courage and pour heart into it did not sug- 
gest ideals shifted to a more convenient level, but added will to pursue 
them in their more difficult heights. 

Anders drew a little book from his pocket and laid it in her lap. 

"Drink your coffee and then look at that," he said. "You re- 
member Mrs. Peyton and I were disputing over a line of Kossetti's the 
other day and you said you hardly knew him ? I took a volume and 
cut out some things that I don't care for and had it bound for you. I 
think you will like him." 

She set her empty cup on the hearthstone, and turning over the 
leaves of the flexible, red-leather volume suddenly closed it with a little 
snap. 

" Please," she said, " you are very kind, but I would rather you 
would not do this." 

" Not give you a book !" Anders raised his eyebrows in remon- 
strance ; " but anyone may give anyone a book !" 

She smiled, a sudden lovely curve of her lip. 

" Anyone may not give me one," she answered. Their eyes met 
and Anders smiled in return. 

" That is something to console me," he said. " If I may not ap- 
proach your royal highness, at least others will find it as difficult." 

His eyes still held hers, and a sudden, vivid memory of the man 
from whom she had so lately parted rose within her. Would she have 
hesitated to accept a book from him? Her sincerity wrote her con- 
tradiction of Anders's speech on her face in a brilliant red that rose 
to her very eyes, and the young man stared with a hardening of his 
lips he could not control. 

" Am I wrong ?" he added quickly. " There is someone who may 
do what I may not ?" 

She shrank painfully from speaking of what she had not even per- 
mitted herself to think freely, and yet it was a chance to lay another 
stone on the wall between them. 



278 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

" Did you imagine that because I do not like you, that I shall 
never like anyone ?" 

It was a terrible speech to make to the man whose fire was warm- 
ing her, but, like a gentle wild creature at bay, she struck hard. 

The young man felt a spasm of jealous rage contract his heart, but 
he was an adept at concealing his emotions. 

" Mary, Mary," he said, " what a cruel speech to make ! Have 
you no pity ?" 

It was the one spot he could reach in her. She looked back at his 
downcast face and wondered for a moment whether her instinct was at 
fault. Did he really care for her with a feeling worthy the name of 
love? Was she wrong in thinking she ranked with his yellow-backed 
novels and his photographs of bacchantes, only as one more sensation 
among his other pleasures of the world, the flesh, and the devil ? Her 
eyes fell on the book in her lap and she straightened her slender 
shoulders. It was a bribe, that red volume; he knew her love of such 
things and turned it into a source of weakness. She wanted to take it 
home with her if she did, where would she stand with him? The 
thing would creep over her and possess her like a drug if she once gave 
in a jot, a tittle, there were so many things she wanted that he could 
give her ! Let him suffer a little if suffer he did, it would not be 
much of a wound. She faced him. 

" I am tired," she said. " I would like to go home, and, Mr. Anders, 
I must once more repeat what I have said. I will never change, I 
could never accept what you offer me, and I pray you to cut short 
this vain waste of your time and mine." 

She arose as she spoke and Eossetti slipped to her feet ; she stooped, 
but he had done so also and held it out to her. 

She shook her head. " Thank you, no," she said. 

With a sudden movement of his wrist he tossed it into the ashes at 
the back of the fire and, turning, went to Mrs. Peyton. 

" Miss Eonalds is tired and wants to desert us," he said. " The 
carriage can take her home and come back for you if you will stay a 
while longer." 

The older woman rose and shook her head with a smile. 

" It has been a delightful evening, though too short," she answered, 
"but I am used to early hours. Good-night, Mr. Pendleton, I hope 
you will come and see me, if you don't mind a boarding-house parlor." 

" Nothing I should like better than to have the pleasure of seeing 
you again," he returned truthfully, "but I'm only twenty-four hours 
in New York." 

She shrugged her handsome shoulders. 

" Just my luck." she said, smiling, as Anders adjusted her wrap ; 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 279 

" if I meet a possible friend, he makes for China that day/''' and she led 
the way to the carriage. 

III. 

To the long days of failure and fatigue that followed came suddenly 
one that held a new menace. They had moved to a cheaper lodging, 
and now Mrs. Peyton, lying on her bed, was very ill. It took an hour 
to settle Mary as a sick-nurse, to turn the whole importance of life into 
drugs and nourishment, and in a day or two the kind doctor who 
came began to make requirements that involved constant expenditures. 
It took a week to bring Mary to an end of all but the few dollars 
necessary for their rent, and on a chilly Monday she stood looking into 
the little coal fire in the grate. It must be kept up somehow. The 
coal was out, and the closet where it was kept in the hall was quite 
empty. She looked at the five-dollar note that remained. It was 
the tenth of the month. They would get no money until the first of 
the month following, and their rent would come due at that same 
moment. She sat down by her aunt's bedside and tried to think. 

Mrs. Peyton dozed, and a light knock at the door brought Mary 
to it with a quick spring, her finger on her lips. 

It was the Doctor. 

He listened to the labored breathing; he took her pulse without 
disturbing her; he looked at the record of the temperature which 
Mary had written down. He shook his head. They went out into 
the hallway. 

" Miss Ronalds," he began gently, " she must have more nourish- 
ment and of a different kind. You will need a nurse. She will re- 
quire attention night and day." 

Mary made a gesture. " We need coal, we need so many things. 
Doctor, I haven't the money." 

He hesitated. " Can't you run into debt ?" 

"To whom?" The girl was trembling, she leant against the wall. 
" Trades-people won't trust poor people, most naturally, and we 
haven't a very easy landlady, and " 

" Miss Ronalds," said a voice from the stairs. 

She started. Anders mounted the last step and stood beside her. 

" I've been trying to see you every day," he said, " but the woman 
always denied me, so I have taken the law into my own hands. How 
is Mrs. Peyton?" 

The Doctor gave a quick look at Mary. 

" Mrs. Peyton is very ill," he spoke hurriedly. " I am Doctor 
Haven. Miss Eonalds is in a very awkward position. I tell her she 
ought to apply to her friends." 

" Of course she ought." The answer was so ready and so eager 
that the older man looked at Mary in surprise. Had she known of 



280 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

such easy help ? " You need a nurse and all sorts of things/' Anders 
went on. "The Doctor and I will arrange matters. Surely, Miss 
Konalds, you haven't been needing help and not calling on me?" 

Mary looked at them and stood at bay. 

" I don't need a nurse/' she answered hurriedly. " I can get 
along; I would rather " 

" My dear young lady/' interposed Haven, " you must not have 
your way here. This gentleman " 

"Anders is my name/' the young man almost laughed in satis- 
faction at the opportunity afforded him ; " I am an old friend of 
Miss Konalds; we can settle it all later, but I know Mrs. Peyton 
would not hesitate to accept the help I am only too happy to be able 
to give; and so, Miss Mary, the Doctor and I will arrange between 
us." 

" Oh, no." Mary made a step towards him. " Please, Doctor, 
surely it isn't necessary to " 

" It is most necessary that your aunt should have every help to 
live," was the answer somewhat sternly delivered. The girl covered 
her eyes with her hand. Anders took a step nearer to her. " You 
can pay it all back sometime," he whispered eagerly; "let me do 
this for her and for you." 

She threw back her head and, turning, gave him a look. It sig- 
nified her assent, but the Doctor looked blankly at Anders as they 
stood alone. 

" Is there any valid reason why you should not assist these ladies ?" 
he began slowly. " They seem utterly alone." 

" No reason none," cried Anders, " and they will never have to 
think of it again. Come on, Doctor, first a nurse," and they went 
down the stairs together. 

Mrs. Peyton got well slowly, laboriously, with a half-hearted 
progress towards health that enabled her to be on her feet as the 
spring began, but her illness had left a fatal weakness of the heart 
behind it. She did not regain the elasticity which had distin- 
guished her; but that was natural. It was not only her illness that 
had depleted her, but the months of insufficient nourishment which 
had preceded it. Through the dreary days Anders established his 
right to look after the older woman, even though such privileges with 
the younger were denied him. The spring saw them heavily in his 
debt, heavily in view of the sum on which they depended, and Mary 
found it impossible to persuade Mrs. Peyton to feel the obligation a 
weighty one. 

" You'll pay it all back in time, my dear," she said coolly enough ; 
" it isn't possible such devotion as this can go unrewarded." 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 281 

As the severity of winter ended there followed fast on it a won- 
derful, overpowering spring, a spring not to be held in ordinary limits, 
that bloomed and blossomed everywhere, and granted to every creature 
with health a portion of joy. To those without the strength to meet 
it, it undermined even their usual share of resignation. 

The air was soft, with that strange speech in it that brings people 
out of their houses to wander in the streets. The nights were in- 
sidious, and led you to lean in your open window. There was promise, 
promise in every breath of it, and the people in the city, never getting 
an answer to the yearning that was in them, felt like caged birds, 
and so, indeed, they were. 

If you had youth and a light heart, you could make the best of 
it, laugh in the squares, make an artificial, gas-light pleasure take 
the place of the sea-shore with the moon on it, tramp the dusty streets 
in companies and forget that somewhere there were apple-orchards 
and lilacs. 

But Mary had hours whose faces she feared to look on as they 
passed. She thought of every solution; she did not forget what a 
speedy end she could find in one of the two winding rivers near at 
hand, and through it all she sought work and tried to make Mrs. 
Peyton at least avoid increasing their debt to Anders. He came day 
after day, brought them flowers and fruit until she begged him not 
to do so any longer. Three days in a week he tried to get them to 
dine with him, and once in every dozen times Mary would yield to 
the persistent desire of her companion and go ; and so the days passed, 
and it was May's end, and then June, and it grew hot, terribly, kill- 
ingly hot. 

The strife between the two women, never bitter, but unceasing, 
had brought Mary near the end of her forces. She no longer could 
go out in the day ; she wandered about sometimes in the twilight, and 
Anders, watching her, set his teeth. She would slip from him yet. 
His jealous mind saw her white and dead before her pale lips had 
been pressed by his own, and as June drew to a close he grew restless. 
He loved her. It was an extraordinary feeling; it did not include 
any necessity to be faithful to any ideal she might have of his 
feeling, but he wanted to be with her and near her as passionately 
as though it were an ideal passion that possessed him. Having no 
moral sense, truth and falsehood were the same to him. He said 
what he thought would advance his cause, and he would not have hesi- 
tated to win her in any way, however devious ; but the simplicity of her 
nature, the strength of her resolution, baffled him. July dawned on 
them, fierce and beautiful, with the melting blue sky overhead, and 
baked pavements under foot, and with it suddenly Mrs. Peyton ceased 
to press the girl, and, giving it all up, sat quiet through the day, lay 
quiet through the night. 



282 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

She was not sullen, she was patient; her sense of humor lived in 
her. She was good-tempered, ate what she could swallow, turned a 
page or two of her book, and said, " Another hot da}', my dear," as the 
sun rose red. 

At last there came a night when the air ceased to vary as the stars 
came out; it was ninety in their room at midnight, as it had been in 
the day. They had gone to bed and lay side by side in the darkness, and 
suddenly Mrs. Peyton touched the girl with cold fingers. 

" My dear/' she said, " I'm going. I've been thinking, going over in 
my mind every friend we have ever had, and from them all stands out 
one by whom I believe your appeal will be answered and gladly. Your 
mother had a dear friend, a Mrs. Gregory. Get a light and write down 
the address." 

The girl did so, and while she moved about the feeble voice went on. 

" I never liked Anne Gregory and she detested me, and so, when I 
took charge of you, she wrote and offered to help me, but I was inde- 
pendent then and I refused with enthusiasm. I added a few things I 
had never said in your mother's lifetime. She would never forgive me 
for them, but she might help you, and if at all, most liberally." 

" Don't talk, aunt," said Mary softly, " don't talk, your voice is so 
weak ; take the medicine," and she held it to her lips. 

" Medicines are not what I need, my dear." Mrs. Peyton tried to 
rise on her elbow to get her breath, and, taking the restorative the Doc- 
tor had given her for her heart, she turned her eyes with a momentary 
brightness on Mary. 

" I'm sorry I've nothing to leave you, child," she said, " but, after 
all, you can always take him if you want him," and with a heavy droop- 
ing of her lids she fell asleep, and never awoke again. 

The days that followed seemed like a fitting climax to the miseries 
they had gone through. Mary wrote the letter her aunt suggested, with 
no faintest hope of an answer. She visited the lawyer who paid Mrs. 
Peyton her annuity, and with the small amount that remained in his 
hands she paid the expenses of her funeral. With the sale of every gar- 
ment, every ornament that remained to them, she squared the small ac- 
counts, and the day after she had watched the earth packed down on the 
cheap coffin she sat in their little room, bare even of its few ornaments, 
with her rent paid for one week in advance and a two-dollar bill in a 
purse that lay on the table. 

Leaning her head on her hands, she stared at the green shutters that 
protected her from the staring sunshine and tried to think. It was so 
hard to think. She sat quite dazed and dull : the heat had stupefied her 
mind and body. 

Someone knocked twice at the door before she heard : then, rousing 
herself, she uttered a mechanical. " Come in." 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 283 

"The gentleman wants to see you, Miss." The woman stared at 
her, wondering that the words brought no change to her heavy eyes. 

" Tell him I don't feel equal to going downstairs/' The gesture of 
utter fatigue that accompaned the words enforced them, but Anders 
had anticipated the answer, and stood behind the servant as she spoke. 
He put the woman aside. 

" Let me see you here," he said. " I was afraid you were quite done 
out. I want to talk to you about business. Waive ceremony for once, 
and let me have ten minutes' speech with you now." 

Mary pointed to a little cane-seated chair that stood near the door. 

" Sit down," she said. " We might as well say good-by here as any- 
where else. Susan, in ten minutes Mr. Anders will be gone. Will you 
bring me a cup of tea then? I think I must have something to eat." 
She gave one of her faint, lovely smiles, and the woman departed with 
a nod that promised the refreshment. A young woman who had just 
had a funeral and was pursued by a young man with money was an 
object of absorbing interest. She determined to give Anders a liberal 
ten minutes and closed the door behind her. 

There was a brief silence ; then the young man drew his chair nearer 
to Mary's and with a quick, indrawn breath of mingled impatience and 
emotion he spoke. 

" Mary, how cruel you are ! " he said. " Tell me what gives you the 
strength to resist so stubbornly what most women seek?" Again he 
drew his chair forward. " Tell me frankly once what stands between 
us ? You have said ' No, no, no,' but with little explanation, small ar- 
gument." 

Her eyes met his. A spark of hope lit them. Perhaps he loved her 
less selfishly than she had always believed, perhaps he was willing to 
help her and exact no terrible sacrifice. A faint color relieved the 
whiteness of her cheek, and Anders felt a pang of mingled anger and 
love as he saw how beautiful she could become were she to allow pleas- 
ure and ease to surround her. 

" Let me tell you once more," he said, " all that I would do to 
bring the roses to your cheeks, all that I have here within me waiting 
for your smile," and for the hundredth time he went over the claims 
he tried to press, the pleasures that his wealth might bring her. 

She shook her head. " What have I to give you ? You cannot marry 
a man and take everything and give nothing. And you would tire of 
it too it is not for a month or a year that one marries." 

Anders looked down at his handsome hand, the swell of whose palm 
between the wrist and little finger gave a sensuous strength to it that 
the spatulate yet taper fingers did not contradict. Within him a 
thought harbored all winter long shaped itself, and he spoke. 

" Are your scruples romantic rather than conventional, Mary ?" he 



284 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

said slowly. " Have you the character, the courage, to make a different 
relation with me ?" He stopped and, raising his eyes, studied her face 
while his own gained additional color. " Do you hesitate to link your- 
self to me forever, but yet would you let me try, Mary, to show you 
how I can love? You and I are so alone together here; there is no 
world to watch us or criticise. We can try experiments and no one 
be the wiser. Why not? I love that very quality in you that makes 
you so careless of the public eye. Mary, let me take you out of this 
horrible city away to the country, to the fresh air and cool woods. Let 
me look after you and try to make you happy in an atmosphere of peace 
and quiet, where I shall have some chance to teach you the nature of 
my love. I have suffered so much through you. Yield to what I say. 
Come with me for a while." 

" I am stupid/' she said, " but I don't understand. You are to 
give me help, but for what ? I don't understand." 

" It's simple enough," his lips twitched a little, they were dry. " You 
will will give me a few months of your life. I will take you to a camp 
in the North, Mary, a place I own, where there is heavenly coolness un- 
der the pines, comfort and freedom and and love, Mary, love such as 
I never dreamed that I could feel. When the winter comes, if you de- 
mand it, I will give you up." 

She put up her hand, she understood. She sat quite still, her hands 
clasped in her lap, and looked at the face near hers. The pupils of her 
eyes had dilated so that they looked black; a dark surge of color rose 
and stained her cheek and stayed there, looking as though someone had 
struck her. 

" Go away from me," she said. " I will send you the money I owe 
you as soon as I can. You shall have every dollar I can put together. 
Now take out of my sight your face go go !" 

His lips were opened to speak, but she rose and made a gesture that 
brought him to his feet. 

He had failed, and in failing had fallen into a terrible trap. 

" Mary," he said, " have you no pity for the passion that tosses me 
this way and that, that whispers devil's promptings in my ears ? Mary, 
have you any idea of the baffling misery of loving a woman and seeing 
her starving to death before your very eyes? Do you think any sin 
seems equal to the horror from which you struggle to save her ?" 

The girl, holding to her chair to steady her shaking knees, pointed 
to the door. 

He turned and with a lagging step reached it. " You know where 
you can reach me," he added in a low voice, "at my rooms ; they are 
always open, and they will telegraph me if I am away; I am at your 
disposal now and forever." Their eyes met, her gaze chilled even the 
warm current of his hardy blood ; he left her and closed the door. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 285 

Mary took a step forward; something gave way in her and she fell 
upon the bed and lay there like a waif stranded by the waters ; then she 
heard the servant's step, and with an instinct as though she were guilty 
and must hide what had happened to her, she dragged herself back on 
her chair and sat with eyes closed. He was right, there was nothing 
for her to do, no place for her. As Susan entered with a rattle of the 
tray she thought with a leaping, breaking heart of the one way open to 
her it cost nothing to drown. 

The woman set down the tray and touched the girl's arm. 

" There, Miss/' she said kindly, " it's strong and hot, take it, it will 
do you good, and here's a letter for you too, I brought it up as I was 
coming." 

Mary sat upright with a catch in her throat. 

" A letter," she cried. " Give it to me." 

Susan handed it to her and lingered. 

" Shall I pour out the tea ?" she said. " It will get too strong, Miss, 
while you are reading. I'd best pour out the tea." 

The girl had opened the envelope with trembling fingers and drawn 
out the sheet. From it fell a check. She read the first page and then 
looked at the signature, Anne Gregory, and then, springing up, 
caught the woman by the arm and rested her head on her shoulder. 

" Susan, Susan," she cried, " I am saved," and she burst into a pas- 
sion of tears. 

IV. 

THE old mansion stood open in the summer sunshine. At its feet 
stretched the soft green turf breaking into terraces that in gradual de- 
scent led you to the wide, box-hedged garden. The house stood high, 
with its delicate white pillars upholding the colonial two-story porch; 
its aspect one of ample comfort, leisure, and peace. At each side spread 
fan-like groves of shrubs that seemed to shut the world out from the 
house and green-terraced garden. 

It was on an afternoon of early August that Mrs. Gregory sat on 
the wide piazza, her tea-table before her, smiling upon a welcome guest. 

" My dear Torry," she said, " why do you wear that unhappy, bi- 
cycle look ? Did I put two lumps in your cup ?" 

Torry laughed. 

" You didn't put in even one ! But it isn't my tea, it's my general 
view of life that's at fault. Now do tell me, Mrs. Gregory, whom I shall 
find here." 

His hostess drank her tea and set down her cup. 

" Dear me, how nice it is to have you to talk to," she said ; " I have 
been living alone with Oswald for a week." She made a gesture. 
"Yes, I know he's my own son, but his ignorance of life is amazing. 
Now I'll tell you who's to be here, and you and I will discuss them. 



286 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

That isn't considered the right thing to do, but if I didn't have some- 
one to speak to I should expire. Oswald is a dear boy, but his ideas of 
men and women are of the most primitive kind. Well, to begin with, 
Miss Snowdon Florrie Snowdon do you know her?" 

Torry nodded. They both laughed. 

" Oh, she isn't for you, my dear boy," Mrs. Gregory went on, " she 
is for Oswald. He admires her greatly, and if keeping things going is 
a strong point in woman, she's a remarkable specimen of her sex. Try 
not to blush at her stories, and don't answer her back. It leads to such 
unspeakable speeches. Then Dacre will be here. You knew he was 
coming ?" 

Torry hesitated a moment. 

She caught him up. " You thought I wouldn't ask him just because 
he's been behaving badly and people talk. I thought you knew me 
better !" 

Her eyes snapped under the broad black band of the eyebrow. 

" Oh, no, I " Again Torry hesitated. 

" Nonsense ! That was precisely what you did think." She shook 
her head at him. " But one don't love people for years for nothing. 
I've known Dacre Starr since he was six !" 

The young man looked at her gravely. " I'm glad you think that a 
reason for sticking by him. Most people are so disgusted at his up- 
setting their preconceived ideas of him that they are bitter to malevo- 
lence, and then," he hesitated, " then he has gone to extraordinary 
lengths." 

" Extraordinary lengths !" Oswald Gregory dropped into a chair 
near by with a nod to Torry that meant welcome. "Of course, you're 
talking about Dacre. I told mother that she had no right to ask him 
here with those girls. He's been behaving like the devil." 

" When you have your OAvn house, Oswald," Mrs. Gregory arched 
her brows, " you can choose your own guests. Nice girls don't suffer 
from knowing a man who has lived thirty years without causing any- 
thing but commendation, and then breaks away into a short phase of 
wild life. I suppose that's what it amounts to." She turns to Torry. 

Torry colored. He wasn't accustomed to discussing a man's habits 
of life with a woman, but this was a case where it would be greater dis- 
loyalty to be silent than to speak. 

" It isn't quite as simple as that," he said slowly. " You know 
about a year ago his eyes troubled him, and I think the doctor laid him 
off his work just in a busy season. He chafed horribly, and in taking 
his enforced holiday he did what I never knew him to do in his life 
before he took to drinking. After that he went on all kinds of a 
tear, and from then on he has hardly touched his work, he has knocked 
about the country doing risky, crazy things, scaring people to death 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 287 

with his violence of speech and action, and altogether running amuck. 
I can't think what's gotten into him, it's like a possession of the devil/' 

Oswald gave a sort of growl. " Oh, rot !" he said. " Dacre Starr 
is sane enough. If you'd seen him ride that race at the Kimberleys' and 
win it, I guess you wouldn't worry about his brains. But it's just his 
arrogance. He thinks he can smash things and nobody will care, and 
then he'll settle down again in the odor of sanctity. It makes me deuced 
mad to see mother having him here. I don't care how long we've known 
him." 

There was a moment's pause, and then Torry turned to his hostess. 
" Who else is coming here ?" 

" Besides Miss Snowdon," Mrs. Gregory poured out another cup 
of tea, " I don't expect anyone but Miss Fitzpatrick." 

" Miss Fitzpatrick," repeated Torry, and there was a pause. 

Oswald made an expressive and very ugly face. 

f< Exactly ! Mother brings that exacting beauty down here, just the 
way most people bring a seamstress, and you and I have got to bow 
and scrape and so on. Dacre's quite capable of not speaking to her, and 
she's more than capable of not speaking to him. Oh, mother's combina- 
tions are rare." 

Mrs. Gregory looked at her son with a smile of satisfaction. 

" Just the word," she said firmly, " and always successful." 

Torry gave an emphatic nod. " She's right there, Oswald," he said ; 
"what most people would not dream of trying, your mother pulls off 
like wax." 

" Then, my dear," pursued Mrs. Gregory, with a sarcasm in her 
voice that made Oswald shift uneasily in his chair, " then you can re- 
lax in association with your young friend, Miss Snowdon. She won't 
tax your brains or manners. Her relations with men seemed to be excel- 
lently given in the expression, ' easy as an old glove.' ' 

Torry watched the combat joyfully. Oswald got up and shook his 
loose-limbed figure. 

" She isn't old at all," he said sullenly, and departed down the 
steps, followed by the laughter of victor and audience 

There was an instant of silence, and then Mrs. Gregory held up her 
hand. 

" There's one of them," she said, " I hear wheels. Will you bring 
up those chairs, Torry that's a good boy ;" and she turned in her chair 
to greet the figure that appeared a moment later in the doorway. 
" Come out here, my dear," she said ; " I don't get up, because I have 
a belief that women of sixty should study repose. Sit down and take 
off your gloves. Hot. isn't it ? That train is awful. Did William meet 
you?" 

Miss Fitzpatrick advanced and. shaking hands with her hostess, took 



288 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

the chair Torry offered her with a slight nod of recognition. He slid 
into his own and tried not to stare at her. She had a brilliancy of color 
and youth that irresistibly attracted his tired eyes; Mrs. Gregory had 
no such scruples. 

" My dear," she said, fixing her eyes on the newcomer. " how won- 
derful you are to have come off a train ! Do you always look so spot- 
less ? I was going to tell Torry to take you for a little row after tea, 
but I wouldn't send that creation of Eingard into our rowboat." 

The girl stretched out her hand for the teacup handed to her, and 
met her hostess's measuring glance with the full, liquid beauty of her 
eyes. " There is nothing I like better than rowing," she said, her low, de- 
liberate voice giving her hearers a sensation of pleasure, " and my clothes 
are meant to be worn." A shadow of a smile touched her lips, and 
Torry felt something like incense rising in the air. 

" Good Lord ! I'm done for," he thought, " I give in. She can have 
me as lackey as much as she likes." Mrs. Gregory gave him a look that 
caught him in the act of adoration and laughed. 

"Here comes Oswald," she said, and as the young man came up 
the steps she introduced him. " Oswald," she added hastily, pointing 
to a dachshund, "that bad Tax has been digging, don't let him come 
up." But it was too late Tax had come up. Tax had instincts like 
other people, and he knew what he liked. With a rush and a wriggle 
he threw himself on the soft mass of lilac chiffon near him, and fixing 
his great brown paws and black elbows like hooks on her knee, he looked 
into Miss Fitzpatrick's face. 

There was one awful moment. 

" You beauty !" she said softly, and stooping brushed her lips 
against the shining black head and great, flappy ears. 

A breath of relief was audible on the air. 

" I've no doubt he returns the compliment, my dear," said Mrs. 
Gregory, with something in her voice that made the girl turn to her, 
" and please forgive Oswald for bringing him. Here," she added, " is 
another of your fellow-guests. Well, Dacre, how did you get here? 
Why didn't you take the wagonette?" She shook hands with the new- 
comer as she spoke, and then made a gesture towards Miss Fitzpatrick. 
" Mr. Starr, Miss Fitzpatrick." 

The young man bowed. 

" I saw Miss Fitzpatrick on the train/' he said. " I wondered if she 

were coming here. Well, Oswald, how are you? Torry " With 

the last-named person he shook hands warmly, and then sat down and 
looked out over the garden. " Beautiful as ever," he said ; " I think this 
place the be-all and the end-all of human perfection. I'd like to be 
buried in your garden, Cousin Anne may I ?" He turned as he spoke 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 289 

and looked at Mrs. Gregory, who put her hand on his sleeve, and gave 
him a short pat that represented a caress. 

" Fm in no hurry to bury you, my dear Dacre," she said, " I prefer 
to have you alive and picking my finest flowers for your buttonhole, as 
usual." 

Starr laughed. " It's a mere chance I didn't arrive in a coffin/ 7 he 
answered ; " I had quite a squeeze coming up here." 

" Trust you for that," interjected Oswald. 

" Oh, this wasn't my fault," the young man went on ; " I'm not re- 
sponsible if the progress of women have led them to board railway cars 
after they have started. I was walking about, waiting for the train to 
start, when I saw a young creature flying towards us. The conductor 
sang out, the train started slowly, of course, at first, and up she came 
with a bag and a bundle. There was no brakeman, and I couldn't get 
on and leave her, but I remonstrated in fact, I think I was betrayed 
into bad language; but she would try it, and somehow she managed 
to get on the step, and I behind her, and we clung together until a man 
came and picked her off and stood her up, looking ten years older, but 
game by jove ! she was game. She turned to me, I was leaning against 
the door, greatly surprised to be there at all, and she said, ' Thank you 
for my life,' and then she walked into the car, a little weak about 
the knees, but game game to the end." He stopped and looked at 
them for appreciation of his young lady, and then he added : " Now, 
don't all blame her; she was only about eighteen, I think; she didn't 
know what she was running into." 

a I am quite prepared to admit that," returned Mrs. Gregory ; but 
Torry leant forward and laid his hand on the other man's knee. " My 
dear fellow," he said, " we aren't thinking about her at all ; we're think- 
ing about you." 

Starr got up and gave a laugh. " Cousin Anne, may I wash ?" he 
said. " Which room am I in ?" 

Mrs. Gregory held out her hand to the girl beside her and rose. 

" Come, my dear," she said, " Dacre has a way of making the move 
in this house. We will go up and I will show you where you are." She 
turned to Starr as she ended. " You and Torry have the two end rooms, 
but don't get to talking, or Torry won't be ready to row this young lady 
before dinner," and she left them with her charge under her arm. 

The three young men stood a moment in the hall looking after them. 

" By Heaven ! she's beautiful," said Starr after a moment. 

" Beautiful !" Torry gave a sort of groan of acquiescence. 

Oswald shook his head. 

"That's all very well," he said, "but I like girls that laugh and 
talk and give you a good time ; I'm not for queens." 

VOL. LXXIV. 10 



290 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

Starr laughed. " ' De gustibus non est disputandum ' holds good to 
the end," he answered, and they went their various ways. 

It was a broad, fair morning, with a fresh, salt breeze. Mrs. Gregory 
stood with three of her guests on the piazza steps. 

" Now, young people," she announced, " I want you to take a walk. 
Dacre is quite up to two girls, Oswald is working for his exams, and 
he can't do a stroke if he sees you flitting around the garden. Torry 
is busy with those eternal business letters of his, and so I send you off 
three-handed. Take Tax ; he needs exercise," she added ; " discipline 
is good for the soul," and, breaking into one of her short laughs, turned 
into the house. 

Miss Snowdon stared rather blankly at Dacre, who smiled. 
" I'm game for Trumpery, young ladies," he said ; " I propose that 
we enjoy this heavenly air on the cliffs. Come, I will show you the 
prettiest walk in the world. Let us poison Oswald's morning by looking 
happy. Of course, he's at his window ; don't you think you could do a 
good, loud laugh, Miss Snowdon, that would carry to his study ?" 

The young lady whom he addressed was always attracted by any 
suggestion with a spice of malice in it. 

" Of course I could," she said gayly, " and, Betty, you stay under 
your sunshade ; you look so grave you will spoil it all. Now, Mr. Starr, 
one, two, three go!" and she broke into a clear, artificial, ringing 
laugh, in which Starr joined, and they drew up the path, literally shout- 
ing as they went. Miss Snowdon turned as they opened the little gate 
at the foot of the garden. 

" He's hanging out of his window," she said joyously ; " no Latin 
this morning. We can go on our way assured we have frustrated any 
plans for his welfare Mrs. Gregory may entertain. Now, Mr. Starr, I 
too have an idea," she went on. " Is this the way ? Yes ? through this 
lovely green field, with this lovely wet grass ? I thought so." She led 
the way as she talked. " I have never been taken a walk in my life that 
hadn't designs on my skirts ! This is my favorite dress too." She 
turned up the frilled edge of it in her hand. " Good-by," she added, 
and dropped it in the grass. " One thing I can't do is to hold up a 
skirt." She proceeded, her petticoats swishing behind her, " But my 
plan is this. I like to talk to you," she gave the young man a glance 
over her shoulder, " and I love to talk to Betty," another glance at Miss 
Fitzpatrick, who strolled along beside her, "but I don't talk in the 
same way to either of you, and I can't reconcile the two styles of con- 
versation, so I propose one of us walks ahead of the others and medi- 
tates on the beauties of nature, and two of us enjoy ourselves at a 
time." She stopped and faced them. 

She was a graceful creature, with a languid step and drooping 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 291 

eyelids that accorded oddly with the clatter of her tongue. Starr 
stared at her in frank amusement. 

" Done/' he said, " and I'll go first and lead the way. I was told 
to exercise Tax, and he and I will run ahead and be back by the time 
you ladies have strolled to the bulkhead. Stop there do you see ?" and 
he pointed to a steep rise in the ground ahead of them, " and I'll join 
you." 

He was off as he spoke, whistling a tune, his hands in his pockets, 
his hat over his eyes, for the light was strong towards the water, and 
one meadow brought them to the edge of it. The two girls strolled 
along in silence, then Miss Snowdon dropped a glance on her com- 
panion's indifferent face. 

" That wasn't exactly what I meant," she said slowly, " the joke's 
on me ; I intended to have a little try at him and give you a show too, 
but my plan miscarried. I might have known he never did anything 
you'd expect. He has a genius for it." 

Betty looked after the retreating figure. 

" He's very amusing," she said ; " I never laughed so much in my 
life as I did last night. Mr. Gregory's unending contradictions and 
oppositions to everyone gave him a chance, of course, but he's extrava- 
gantly funny. I don't make him out. What is he ? What does he do ?" 

Miss Snowdon shook her head. 

" Oh, he's very, very bad ! You mustn't take the slightest interest 
in him beyond laughing at his jokes, which you couldn't help without 
being superhuman. I'd have to take you home at once if you liked him. 
He's a lawyer who's given up his law to go about and enjoy himself. 
Sounds rather nice, I think ! Frank told me he believed he was living 
on his capital, which in Frank's eyes is equivalent to murder. He hunts 
and races and drinks and gambles, and well, I believe he's had lots of 
affairs as well. Frank says he never saw a man throw himself to the 
dogs as he has, and yet they all like him all the men, that is; there 
are women who won't have him at their houses. You know Mrs. Greg- 
ory is his cousin." 

Betty shifted her sunshade to the other shoulder and looked in- 
quiringly into the light-blue eyes on a level with her own. 

" Are you making this up ?" she asked. 

Miss Snowdon put her little, short nose in the air. " That's a piece 
of impertinence I'll pay you for," she said in her dragging voice ; " just 
wait awhile. What do you think of Torry ?" 

Miss Fitzpatrick shrugged her shoulders. 

" Now, he's nice and well-bred and well-behaved," pursued Miss 
Snowdon; "you can like him, if you want to; do you think Starr 
good-looking ?" 

They both stared at the approaching figure, for he had turned and 
was walking back towards them. 



292 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

" Without question," returned Betty slowly ; " and those almond- 
shaped eyes of his that don't seem to notice you until they fasten on you 
and hold you like vises are the handsomest thing I have seen in a long 
time." 

" Oh, so you have fallen under t those almond-shaped eyes/ have 
you ?" Miss Snowdon narrowed her lids. " I'll have to watch you. 
You're just the sort of spoiled royal duchess type that don't like this 
man and snubs that, and thinks all the ones that like your beauty, fools, 
and the ones that like your money, knaves, and on a sudden fancy some 
worthless ne'er do weel and take the bit in your teeth and marry him 
too. You'll bear watching." 

Betty laughed. 

Miss Snowdon tossed her little nose again in the air. She had a 
lovely white skin, and the four little freckles on the bridge of that 
retrousse feature made it only more piquant. 

" I'll ask Mr. Starr what he thinks," she said. 

Betty dropped her sunshade. "You won't do that?" she said, but 
Starr was within hearing. 

" Miss Snowdon will do what she pleases," he said, standing before 
them, his hat off, the line of dark tan showing on his forehead where 
it met his naturally white skin. "What is this particular bit of mis- 
chief?" 

Miss Snowdon laughed. 

"I said I would ask you whether you didn't agree with me in my 
estimate of Betty's character," she said coolly, "that she's capable of 
falling in love with a scamp just because she's so toploftical with hon- 
est men." 

Starr turned his eyes on Miss Fitzpatrick and saw a blush of real 
displeasure rising on her cheek. 

" Are you toploftical ?" he said slowly. " What a heavenly thing 
to be ! I have been * had for the asking ' so many years, hail fellow 
with every chimney-sweep, that I revere you for your power." 

There was an instant's pause, during which Miss Fitzpatrick's color 
died slowly down, and Starr turned to the water, which shimmered be- 
side them. 

" Come along the cliff's height," he said ; " on this bluff one feels 
as though one had reached the Devon downs, and really the drop is 
rather splendid." 

They walked along, all three treading the soft, matted grass, which 
grew thick and short, a barrier of bushes between them and the outer 
edge of the cliff, a barrier that ended suddenly and left them walking 
on the very edge, looking down to where sixty feet below the sea churned 
against the rocks. 

They walked slowly, looking cautiously over the edge where the 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 293 

rock jutted out into strange shapes, and where in places it took a 
straight black drop to the shining water. Standing together they all 
turned to look inland, where the land, rippling on past the silvery fence- 
rails, rose slowly in a long range of low hills. 

" It don't suggest a vestige of human life," said Betty slowly, " and 
yet it isn't like meadows primeval. You don't feel awed or lonely, as 
you do in places that are untouched by man/' 

" I know what you mean," Starr turned to her. " It feels familiar, 
and don't lie on the heart as some lonely landscapes do." He swept it 
with a glance. " It would be a nice .place to die in," he added, " if one 
could only do it quietly without the fuss it seems to make. If one 
were an animal now, one could crawl in among those bushes and die 
without any bother, and lie under the open sky till one's bones 
bleached." 

" Charming !" Miss Snowdon made a little grimace. " I am not so 
crazy about bleaching my bones now if it were my hair !" 

Starr laughed, and Betty gave him a closer scrutiny than she usually 
bestowed on man. 

" I don't mind about the bones," she said, " but I would like a good 
time first, and I don't see any signs of it. Life's a fake, in my opinion." 

Starr turned on her and fixed his eyes on her sternly. 

" What in the name of Heaven have you to complain of, Miss Fitz- 
patrick ?" he said. " Life seems to me to have treated you pretty well, 
on the whole." 

She looked up at him in startled silence; he had more the air of a 
judge than anything she had ever seen. She colored slowly under 
those searching eyes and Miss Snowdon laughed. 

"There, Betty, take that," she said. "I'm awfully obliged, Mr. 
Starr," she added, " Betty is growing insufferable. I suppose she 
thinks she resembles that blase Alexander with no more worlds to con- 
quer. Convince her that you at least lie beyond her reach. I'll leave 
you to teach her that pleasant lesson," and before they had grasped 
her intention she had turned towards the house and was floating off 
with a rapidity her indolence had given no promise of. 

Betty made a step after her, but Starr stayed her with a gesture. 

" Let her go," he said. " She is right, let us have it out, you and I. 
You make my heart ache with your manner of being done with a life 
you have hardly begun. My dear child, how old are you? twenty? 
twenty-one? I thought so. Well, try the world a little while longer 
before you pronounce it worthless. Test it, breathe its air without the 
veil of your caste, give it something, and it in return will bring its 
gifts to you. It isn't an opera-house where you can get the best of it 
while leaning over the balcony to watch the crowd. You must mix in 
it, be of it, be pushed and jostled by it, and then you will bear some 
marks worth taking to your grave with you, even if they be scars." 



294 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

She stood looking up at him, stirred by his words so that her heart 
beat fast. She wanted to follow his teaching, but how could she? 
She was fenced about with high walls, and the first of them was pride ; 
she could not bear that he should see how much he moved her. 

" Your recommendations are excellent, no doubt," she said, " but 
a little general, and you are you so very happy as a result of your 
pushing and jostling, after all?" 

Starr looked at her. " Happy, happy," he repeated ; then he 
laughed. " You don't understand the first principles of instruction," 
he said. " The pupil never asks the teacher any questions. I propose 
that we vary the lesson with one in natural history. Are your nerves 
strong enough to let you slide down this rock if I go first ? I think I 
see a star-fish down there, and it being a namesake, I take an interest 
in it ; come," and he held out his hand. 

Betty laid her hand in his and followed, obedient, where he led. 

V. 

" COUSIN ANNE/' said Dacre, " I want to take Miss Fitzpatrick to 
Tar Pond ; may I have the pony and the buggy ?" 

They were just through breakfast. Mrs. Gregory gathered up her 
letters and looked at him over her spectacles. 

"Tar Pond, my child," she answered, "is fifteen miles away; it's 
an all-day expedition ; you couldn't get back to lunch." 

" Perhaps not," Dacre answered ; " give us some sandwiches, and 
we'll be in to afternoon tea." 

" I'm not sure that it's proper," Mrs. Gregory went on with a 
slight smile. " Miss Fitzpatrick, do you want to go ? Do you think 
you can stand Dacre for five hours ?" 

" Oh, dear," interjected Miss Snowdon, " doesn't it sound awful !" 

Betty got up and picked up her letters. 

" I'd like to go," she said, " if you have no objections, Mrs. Greg- 
ory." 

Mrs. Gregory paused and looked at Dacre. 

" Don't be cruel," he said, coming up and putting his arm about 
her; "you know you don't need Jimmy; he can't draw the wagon- 
ette, and that's the point ; no one thinks you need us !" 

" Oh, go along with you," said Mrs. Gregory, " do what you like 
and get the sandwiches, and get off by twelve, or you won't get home 
before dark." 

Dacre waited until he was seated in the buggy, with Miss Fitzpat- 
rick beside him and Jimmy in the shafts, before he answered that last 
remark. 

" Home before dark," he said, looking at his companion's eyes with 
a laugh. " No such fool I." .Nor were they. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 295 

They had had their sandwiches, had explored the woods for flowers, 
the buggy was full of them, and Dacre had gathered a mass of pond 
lilies by taking off his shoes and stockings and wading up to his knees ; 
and now it was time to go home; Jimmy, fed and rested, looked round 
at Betty to suggest it. 

But they lingered. It was a haunt of peace, the grassy clearing in 
the woods, and Betty, with a chain of wild-flowers half-finished on her 
knee, was not disposed to cut short an hour of deep content. 

Starr, with his pipe between his teeth, his hat off, his sleeves still 
rolled up, lay at her feet with a sense of abiding quiet rare with him. 

" It's horrid, this stupid prejudice about our going home, isn't it ?" 
he said, smiling at her. " I know there is a house somewhere near, 
and we could have another day like this, if only it were proper. The 
very word 'proper' has a small, trifling sound; words are not often 
blessed with so much appropriateness." 

Her eyes rested on the muscular arms he clasped behind his head. 
It seemed to her she could see him employed in the pastimes they had 
talked of, in which he took so keen a joy and so excelled; saw him rid- 
ing to a finish, swimming with long, easy strokes, or wrestling and 
throwing his opponent ; for in her visions of him she always made him 
victor. 

" Don't you think," she answered slowly, " that the essential words 
generally ring true strong, for instance, and weak; they could not 
be used the other way round." 

" You are right." He sat up and looked at her. " Youth and age, 
shallow and deep, false and true !" 

"Yes," she nodded, "and just listen to deaf, dumb, and blind; 
the first so without sound, the second so chained in, the third as final 
as death, without its whispering mystery." 

Starr stared at her a moment, and then dropped back on the grass 
and looked up at the trees overhead. 

"You choose your words well," he returned slowly; "you seem to 
feel them all." 

She shrugged her shoulders. " One of them has just been brought 
home to me," she said. " Do you know Nellie Cartright ?" 

" I think yes," Starr hesitated, " little, small, clever thing." 

She nodded. " That's Nellie, and she was engaged to a blind man. 
I had a note from her this morning to say she couldn't stand it and 
had thrown him over." She made a gesture of repudiation. " I should 
think she might ! Think of it like living in a half-dug grave." 

Starr looked across the glimmering grass, for the sky was shot with 
bright beams of sunlight that broke through the gathering clouds. 

" That's very expressive," he said. " Would it be as bad as that ?" 

She lifted her hands. " Think of it !" she repeated. " Why, you 



296 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

you, with your power of action, immediate, masterful action, can you 
conceive of it! Stumbling in the dark, with sometimes a hand re- 
luctantly held out to you." 

Starr's eyes stared at her handsome face, fascinated. It was full 
of youth youth and life that seemed brutal, almost, as it repelled the 
appeal of weakness. It glowed with rich color; her eyes, dark as his 
own, shone like stars. Her glossy hair caught the sunlight. This was 
woman personified, pronouncing the doom of such a man as the poor 
creature she described. It seemed to wreck all compromise. The very 
shifts of such a life fell away and left the naked truth exposed, "stum- 
bling in the dark, with sometimes a hand reluctantly held out to you." 
He turned cold with the horror of it. In his bitterest moments he had 
never caught such words to bring it home to his dull self, which still 
protested it could make life worth while. He turned from her, and 
across the grass, amid some cardinal flowers that they had spared, 
stepped towards him, from the air, another figure, a gracious presence, 
so unlike the one beside him. It was oddly clad for a hot, summer 
day; it wore threadbare black, and a little velvet hat and muff, and 
the thin face was white with cold, but the eyes, the lips ah God ! 
Those hands would not be reluctantly held towards him ! Those eyes 
seemed born to pity ; those lips to quiver with tenderness. A memory 
of that eager sympathy flooded him, and, clutching it to him like a 
cover in the cold, he slid over in the grass and rested his face on his 
arm. The girl beside him looked down at his recumbent figure; it 
looked full of passive power, and gave her a thrill that vibrated through 
her fingers. She stretched them out and almost touched his dark hair, 
but drew back in time, and Starr, sitting up, got to his feet and looked 
about him. 

" That storm is not going to blow over," he remarked, as he walked 
about and surveyed the heavens ; " you and I had best get under shel- 
ter if we can. Jimmy will take his chance under that tree; he hasn't 
a fearful nature, hasn't Jimmy, so I think he'll do; but we've got a 
good way to go, and it would be pleasanter to be dry than wet. There's 
a house somewhere back here. Come, we'll find it/' 

Betty got up and shook the leaves and grasses out of her skirt. 

" Poor Jimmy !" she patted his neck. " We won't be long ; it 
looks like a shower." 

" Come," said Dacre, " it will be on us in five minutes," and they 
started around the pond by a woody cart-road. 

The thicket was sweet with flowers ; the birds were hopping about, 
telling of the storm, but he hurried her on, and wouldn't let her stop, 
even for a wild orchid. 

" There it is." He pointed to where, amid a clearing in the trees, 
stood a little structure, silvery gray with age, two tumbled-down 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 297 

wooden steps leading to the door. They fled up through the long 
grass, climbed a stone wall, not thirty feet in front of the house, and 
reached the doorway as the rain-drops came on them, as though hurled 
with precision. 

" There's no use knocking, open the door," said Dacre, and turn- 
ing the handle he led her in through a hall two feet square to the 
threshold of a room ; it was empty. Dacre, standing in the hall, closed 
the door to keep the rain out and called upstairs, the little staircase 
dropping its last steps into the hallway. 

" Is anyone in ?" he called. " We are taking shelter from the storm. 
Is anyone in?" 

There was a moment's silence, and then they heard a soft voice 
coming down the stairway. 

" Who be you ?" it demanded, shaking slightly. 

" Travellers caught in the rain," returned Dacre. " Come down 
and look at us." He smiled at Betty, and they both entered the little 
room and waited. 

Only a moment, and then creaking down the stairs came their in- 
terlocutor; and as they turned to meet her she waved them towards 
chairs. 

" Be seated," said Mrs. Penthony ; " I'm right glad to see ye ; it's 
kinder lonesome in a storm, now, ain't it?" She gave a faint smile 
which added lines to her face. She was a gentle, withered-looking wom- 
an, with a countenance that would have been marked for its sweetness 
had it not been for the expression of her eyes; there lay in them a 
defiance and a fear. 

" It rained a good bit this month ; the pond's high," she began 
again. " You've been over to the big pond, I guess ; strangers visit 
the pond some." 

" Yes, we drove from Southfield to see it," returned Dacre with 
his friendly smile; "it's a beautiful stretch of water." 

The woman nodded. " I s'pose it is," she answered, " but sence I 
took to thinking what a place it would be to put a murdered body in I 
hain't been so set on its looks." 

Dacre laughed. Betty felt very unlike doing so. 

" I can understand," said the young man, " that you wouldn't find 
that a cheerful point of view;" then he added, with a sort of interest 
and gentle reproof in his voice that made the girl wonder, "but you 
shouldn't indulge such fancies." The people Betty knew didn't take 
the trouble to talk to women of this kind. The woman's answer sur- 
prised her also. 

" That's so ;" she looked at Dacre with a sort of gratitude. " It's 
a weakness, ain't it, to think about such things?" She paused, then 
added abruptly, " But don't you believe in sperrits ?" 



298 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

The young man faced her and shook his head. 

" Not one man Jack of them," he said. 

She turned to the girl. " Nor you ?" she asked. 

" I don't think I ever thought much about them/' answered Betty 
with her usual honesty, "but that's because no one I know considers 
them worth thinking about at all." 

The woman shook her head. " You're real fortunate," she said ; 
" not that I wasn't like ye once, not that I didn't live for years in this 
house and not a bit of trouble, but now well, I don't have much peace 
night or day." 

Dacre eyed her gravely. 

"That's hard," he said, "what's the matter?" The lightning 
glared into the room as he spoke. 

The woman stood up suddenly, holding up her hand, and listened. 
There was a crash of thunder that died slowly away, and then there 
was silence. She sat down again and faced Dacre with her strange 
eyes. 

" I thought I heard something," she said, and turned to Betty with 
a sort of apologetic smile. " I'm that ha'nted," she went on, " I do 
hear things all the time. You see there was a murder here twenty 
years ago, and the woman was dragged right into this room and left; 
and well well, I am kinder set it'll happen again, and this time it'll 
be me." 

Dacre put his hand on her thin arm in its faded cotton sleeve. 

"You poor soul," he said, "you've got to stop this, it's awful! 
What started such ideas in your head ? Come, tell me, and I'll get them 
out somehow. It isn't the room," he added in his pleasant voice, 
" this nice, clean little room I should think you might be fond of it ; 
and you have your garden. What's the matter ?" 

The woman shook her head. " There ain't nothing to be done," 
she said. " I did used to be nervous some, this is a lonely place, 
but the heart's all gone out of me since Eandal came." 

" Eandal ?" questioned Dacre. 

He was answered with a loud, deep bay of a dog. The woman 
pointed to the window with a sudden whitening of her lips. 

" There he is," she said, " he heard me talking ; he's outside the 
winder now." 

Betty felt her blood cooling unpleasantly. Dacre got up and looked 
out the little window, hung about with a trumpet-vine. Below him, 
looking up with ferocious eyes, stood a dog, half mastiff, half pointer, 
a powerful beast, whose yellowish gray skin was rising into ridges on 
his back as he recognized a strange face at the window. 

"That's Randal," went on his hostess, "and he's just a-waitin' 
awhile, and then he's goin' to have my blood as sure as my name is 
Susan Penthony." 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 299 

Dacre turned sharp on his heel and stared at her. 

" Your own dog ?" he said. 

" My own dog ?" she repeated ; she spoke in sort of whisper, lest 
Eandal should hear. " He ain't my dog ; my husband brought him 
home a year ago to guard the farm ; he's got an evil sperrit in him, and 
he's hated me ever sence he first clapped eyes on me." 

" Why don't you send him away ?" Dacre looked perplexed. 

She looked at him, and he realized that things were not as simple 
as that in some people's lives. 

" My husband thinks I have taken an unreasonable dislike to the 
creature," she said slowly ; " I have never told him just hpw I felt, 
but I did mention to him that Randal alarmed me some, and he told 
me not to be a coward, that he had paid five dollars for him, and guessed 
he wasn't going to throw it in the road. But it has been getting worse 
lately," she went on ; " you see I make out that the man that did that 
last murder died five years ago; nobody ever proved it on him, but 
we all knew it round about ; well, Randal he was born about then, and 
I guess the sperrit took to his body; them Persian Hindoos believe 
that, and I can see how it might be, can't you? Well, when he found 
himself back here at the old place he took to hankering after his old 
ways, and he's fixed on me, and he's waiting waiting for a likely mo- 
ment. I know how he hates me, for he won't let me come near my gar- 
den flowers any more; he made up his mind one day I shouldn't have 
no flowers, and I ain't been able to water nor tend them ever since." 

Betty uttered an exclamation. 

" You don't mean he really keeps you from your flowers ?" Dacre 
said. 

" Oh," she gave a weary shake of her head, "oh, that's no worse 
than the rest. Sometimes he stands up on his hind legs and looks in 
the window there and fixes his eyes on me until I nearly scream. I 
bolt the door and go upstairs. You don't know what he's made of 
my life. I'm alone here most of the day, my husband's off fishing in 
the river or on the farm, and I used to have a pride in the house and 
garden, and cheer myself up a good bit, singing round, and such. Well, 
Randal he don't intend that I should sing a note; he comes up and 
growls till I stop." 

Dacre turned again to the window. The rain had ceased; below 
stood the dog watching him. He faced back into the room with a 
curious expression which Betty tried to read. 

" I see," he said slowly, " it's Randal that makes the trouble. You 
could get along if it were not for Randal. I will go out and have a 
talk with him. I'd like to see this autocrat near to." 

The woman sprang up and caught him by the arm. 

" Don't you do it," she said, " don't you speak to him. If you and 



300 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

the young lady go right out the gate, he'll let you be; he's got sense, 
plenty, Randal has, but don't try no tricks with him, or he'll he'll kill 
you." 

" He will, will he ?" returned Dacre grimly. " I'd like to see him 
try. However, we thank you for your hospitality, and we must be 
moving on. Before we go perhaps you might give us a flower from 
your garden to remember you by." 

She grew pale and hesitated. 

Dacre laughed. " Eandal again," he said ; " well, never mind, 
we'll go without then. Good-by. Come, Miss Fitzpatrick." 

Mrs. Penthony forgot Randal for a moment and looked at them as 
she took the latch of the front door in her hand. 

" Are you two sweethearts ?" she said. 

Dacre shook his head, while the color flushed Betty's lovely cheek. 

" No," he said, " I want her, but she won't have me, that's all." 

" Oh, she'll change her mind," said the woman slowly ; " you be 
the kind that gets your girl, I can see that. Well, you've been real 
kind talking, and it has eased me some. If you be round in these 
parts again, step in, won't you? It will do me a world of good." 

Dacre held out his hand. 

" I sha'n't forget you ; don't you worry," he said ; " I am going to 
send you some nice light paper for that wall ; you can put it on your- 
self, I guess, you have clever hands, and perhaps you'd like a maga- 
zine or two and some books? We'll cheer you up a bit, Betty and I, 
won't we ?" He smiled at the girl as he spoke. 

" Of course we will, Mrs. Penthony," she held out her hand, " you've 
got two new friends ; don't forget us." 

The woman clasped her fingers, looking down at the rings in wonder. 

" You be real nice," she said. 

"As for Randal," went on Dacre, "I am going to settle matters 
with him ; he sha'n't bother you any more ; come out and see." 

The woman shrank back and shook her head. 

" I darsent," she answered ; " things won't be settled between him 
and me until one of us is dead, and I know which one." 

Betty took her hand as Dacre opened the door and went down the 
step. 

" Don't feel like that," she said, " come to the gate with me. Mr. 
Starr won't let him hurt you." 

Mrs. Penthony stood in the doorway. Betty stood at the foot of 
the steps and Dacre beside her. The rain had left the air fresh and 
sweet. To the right of them the garden straggled unattended, but 
filled with flowers that ran down the stone wall and even past it. Round 
the corner of the house came Randal, moving with an easy, padded 
step, characteristic of his mastiff blood. He stood a moment and 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 301 

looked at them, then, planting his legs, gave a low growl. Mrs. Pen- 
thony shivered. 

" Won't you please go ?" she said. " He's leaving you be, that's 
all he thinks you can ask. Do get out the gate and latch it, or he will 
be following you along the road to see you well off the place." 

Dacre answered her, with his eyes fixed on the dog, " May I have 
some of your flowers, Mrs. Penthony, if you don't object?" 

The woman began to wring her hands. Eandal growled. 

" Don't try nothing of that kind," she answered in a shrill whis- 
per, " do go, won't you ?" She turned to the girl, " Can't you make 
him go?" 

Betty shook her head. She stood beside Dacre, her hands clinched 
tightly, her eyes moving restlessly between the man and the dog. 

" Now, Mrs. Penthony," the young man's voice cut the air clear and 
ringing, " I want you to do something for me ; I want you to come 
down and pick a handful of flowers. I will see that he don't touch you, 
and you will break him of that unpleasant habit of his." 

The woman groaned, but moved down the steps. 

Randal growled. 

" Don't mind him," Dacre went on, his level voice hard as steel, 
"this is your chance; I'm here, I won't be here to-morrow; fight for 
}'our rights just this far; have courage this time, come." 

The woman obeyed him. She gave one look at the dog, one look at 
the aggressive figure of the young man, and with slow, uneven steps 
she crossed to the bed of flowers and stooped to pick one. She turned 
as she did so and faced the dog. He gave a deep growl. There was a 
moment's silence. She picked the flower, then stood up, then stooped 
for another, and Randal understood. 

With a snarl that bared every tooth in his great head he sprang for 
her, but Dacre was before him in his path; the dog drew back an 
instant, crouched, and sprang with all his force, striking high, after 
the manner of his kind. 

There was a second when Starr's figure wavered, then he bent 
slowly forward, his hands around the dog's throat, the dog's teeth meet- 
ing in his shoulder. It was a struggle. He bent lower, lower, and 
then with a gasp and a rattle the brute's teeth relaxed their hold, and 
Dacre dropped him on the ground; he lay motionless. 

They all stood as still as Randal lay, then Mrs. Penthony drew a 
deep breath, and throwing her apron over her head, tried to check the 
hard sob which struggled in her throat. 

Betty caught Starr by the other arm. " Did he reach your flesh ?" 
her voice trembled. 

The young man gave a slight movement of his shoulder. 

"Just pinched it," he said, "nothing bad; I'll fix it up when we 
get home. We must hurry." 



302 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

He turned to the older woman, and, drawing away her apron, 
smiled in her eyes. 

" What's the matter now ?" he said. 

She gave her usual strange look about her, and her eyes lit on the 
body of the dog. She drew a deep sigh and straightened her shoulders. 

" Is he dead," she said " real dead ? You're sure of it ?" 

Starr stooped and touched the short hair near the dog's ear with a 
not ungentle movement of his hand. 

" Dead as a door-nail," he said slowly. " Now, Mrs. Penthony," he 
looked straight into her eyes, " I want you to be a sensible woman and 
live a happier life." He drew out a leather case and took a bank-note 
from it. " That's for Mr. Penthony," he added, with a slight smile ; 
" tell him it was a choice between myself and Eandal, and I voted for 
myself. Good-by, we must be going." He opened the gate, and as he 
and Betty went through he looked back and waved his hand. " Weed 
your garden," he called, and they ran down the slope to the road. 

They neither of them spoke until they reached Jimmy ; then Betty 
laid her hand lightly on his arm. 

" May I harness up ?" she said, " may I not do even that ?" 

Dacre laughed, and catching her fingers, he pressed them. 

" I should esteem it a favor if you would," he said, " and so, no 
doubt, would Jimmy." 

VI. 

THE room was very still and fragrant with the perfume of mig- 
nonette. Through the two wide windows towards the west came long, 
red shafts of sunlight. Mrs. Gregory put down her book with a start. 

" Dear me," she glanced at the clock. " Half-past five. Where 
is tea, I wonder, and where are those children? Oswald was to have 
been back and sent the carriage to the station. Half -past five ! Why, 
the train got in half an hour ago !" 

She had only a moment to indulge in this unpleasant reflection when 
the door opened. 

" Miss Eonalds," and the man disappeared, leaving Mrs. Gregory's 
visitor in the doorway. 

" My dear," the hostess sprang to her feet, " how did you get here ? 
Did the carriage meet you ?" 

The young lady in the doorway advanced slowly. She looked dazed. 

" I found my way quite easily," she said, a very faint smile touching 
her lips. " I asked people, and they directed me. I am used to to 
walking about alone." 

Her hostess caught the two gloved hands in hers; she drew the 
girl towards her and kissed her. 

" I am so glad to have you," she said : " sad as your news was, I 
can't tell you how pleased I was to know something about you. It is 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 303 

years since I have heard of your aunt. I never knew her well; your 
mother was my friend, and I was so glad to have news of your mother's 
child. You must stay a long while and get rested. Were you quite 
alone in New York with her? You must have had a terrible experi- 
ence, my dear." 

The slender shoulders straightened. The deep-blue eyes met hers. 
A long look left them both speechless, but Mrs. Gregory suddenly 
knew that her visitor was beautiful. There was a moment during 
which she stared at the thin, white face, the hollows in the cheeks, 
the black lines under the girl's eyes, then she turned to the door, draw- 
ing the girl with her. 

" Come to your room and have tea there," she said hurriedly. " I 
hear them coming my son and some friends of his. You are too tired 
for a horde of people like that. You can rest until dinner," and she 
hurried the newcomer upstairs and into the bedroom she was to occupy. 

She pushed the girl gently into a big armchair, and without a 
word drew the pins from her hat and threw it on the bed. The bril- 
liant shining of the golden hair revealed almost startled her; she 
passed her hand gently over it. 

" What beautiful hair you have, my dear," she said. The girl laid 
her head back against the chair and looked up at her. There was no 
wave of color at the praise, and out of the eyes looked such a depth 
of spent misery that Mrs. Gregory felt a clutch at her heartstrings. 

" You are done out, aren't you ?" she said slowly. " You must lie 
down now, and I will send Dolly to unpack your trunk when it comes. 
She will bring you a white dress of mine that you can wear for dinner if 
it is not here in time. I won't bother you now, but after a while you 
must tell me everything. You have come to the right place, my dear," 
and with a pat on her shoulder she turned and left the room. 

Dacre sought Mrs. Gregory in the drawing-room. His arm felt 
stiff, and he wanted some lotion with which to bathe it. He walked 
quickly through the dim room, and seeing a gleam of white on the ter- 
race, emerged into the twilight of the garden. Two steps took him off 
the wide porch, but as he neared the slender figure standing on the 
grass, leaning against the stone railing that enclosed it, he saw that it 
bore no resemblance to his hostess; it must be the stranger that had 
come amongst them. He would have turned back if he could, but as 
he stopped, she moved and faced him. The young man stared at her 
as though turned to stone. 

She took a step back and rested her fingers on the railing and so 
steadied herself. Her color mounted slowly into her face and died 
away, then Dacre spoke. 

"You!" he said. 



304 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

Her eyes, which had drunk in the sight of his face in a sort of 
dream, steadied and darkened; she drew up her slender frame with 
the gentle pride which so well became her. He made a step towards 
her. " Oh, don't, don't misunderstand me," he went on ; " that is more 
than I can bear; I'm glad, only too glad, to see you; that's just the 
trouble." 

She stood, her wide blue eyes fixed on him with their ardent in- 
tensity. He remembered it so well, had he not seen it just that after- 
noon in his vision, and it stirred him with a shiver of pleasure. 

He came up to her and took her hand. 

" Don't you see ?" he said, his voice quivering with a note that Betty 
would have triumphed to hear, " don't you see ?" 

She raised her eyes and looked straight into his, then shook her 
head. 

"You don't?" Dacre laughed. It had rather a desperate sound. 
" Well, then, never mind ; perhaps you will later ; and now, just now, 
I'll forget prudence, I'll forget right and wrong and justice and good 
sense, and only remember truth, and tell you how happy, happy, happy 
I am to see you." He had not relinquished her hand; he raised it 
lightly to his lips as he spoke, and had only just released her when he 
heard the clear call of Betty's voice from the house. 

" Mr. Starr, come and be seen to. Where are you ?" 

" Tell me one thing," he said hurriedly, " before we part, your first 
name ?" 

She did so, and they stared wonderingly at each other. 

" Now that you say it," he murmured, " it sounds familiar ; I seem 
to have called you by it often," and he went from her with a quick 
step which took him swiftly out of sight. She dropped down on the 
parapet and sat still, still, and let it sink in, far in, down to where it 
left no ripple on the surface. 

There was only one lamp in the drawing-room, and it stood close 
to the piano while Miss Snowdon sang. Her voice was clear, thin, and 
in some way quickened tears and smiles. She sang " Auld Kobin Gray " 
and left them all moved and deliciously saddened, then whirled round 
on the piano-stool. 

" Mrs. Gregory, let us have tableaux to my songs," she said, " and 
entertain the neighborhood! Miss Ronalds is a perfect Jeanie, who 
would do for Jamie ? Mr. Starr, I think you are the nearest approach 
to a Jamie that we have got." 

They all looked involuntarily at the girl and then at Starr. Betty 
felt a pang of anger. 

" Mayn't I be Robin ?" drawled Torry. " I never thought of it be- 
fore, but I believe I was made for the part. Now that I think of it, I 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 305 

believe it's prophetic, only I shall never get such a Jeanie;" he gave a 
little friendly look at Mary, " and if Starr comes and Jamies round 
where I am, I shall call the police." 

They laughed. 

" Your conception of Eobin's character, my dear, differs from that 
of Lady Lindsay," Mrs. Gregory smiled, " but I shouldn't blame you." 

Starr aroused himself. He had allowed his eyes to fasten on the 
delicate countenance of the newcomer as she sat in the wide-open win- 
dow. 

" Jamie was in his right," he said suddenly, " she was his ; ' Auld 
Eobin ' was an interloper." 

" I thought that would be your view." Torry got up and clapped 
him on the shoulder. " Come and play while Miss Snowdon sings 
' Mandalay ;' it's much nicer when she faces the room, for every rea- 
son, and then I propose we walk in the garden." 

Starr sat down at the piano, and with his clumsy, athletic hands 
sought the chords and played them with a swing which was the only 
accomplishment of his fingers. 

She sang it through, verse after verse, and wandered out into the 
garden, still singing the chorus, Oswald beside her, and Mrs. Gregory 
knit her clever eyebrows when she saw Starr slide off the stool and 
make straightway for the window where Mary sat. She watched Betty 
and Torry stroll out into the moonlight, and wondered whether it was 
her duty to join the tete-a-tete by the window. She had waited a mo- 
ment too long, however; they had risen, and wandered out of the room 
just as a sentence formed itself in her mind. 

" I must tell her to-morrow that Dacre don't count," she thought, 
picking up the Spectator, and she had her weekly battle with the 
editor. 

The long, even paths of the rose garden were lit by the half circle 
of the moon. The air was soft, it barely stirred the rose-bushes, which 
were thick with green hips that would turn to red, and Starr sauntered 
by Mary's side with the battery of his light talk turned upon her. He 
gave brief summaries of Mrs. Gregory's guests, present and to be, of 
her son's fancies, his own scrapes in her household anything and every- 
thing that was familiar, light-hearted, and could give a sense of nat- 
uralness and ease to her thoughts; then drew her out with questions 
about her childhood, the early girlish days before her life had become 
a struggle, though as she answered him he realized with an inward 
pang that it had always been hard and sad, and so they went on, with 
no reference to their former relations, and gathered a sort of back- 
ground to their knowledge of each other. 

" It helps to understand a man, doesn't it," he stopped with arms 
folded and looked down at her, " when you know whether he swung on 



306 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

gates and stole apples when he was a boy, or trudged doggedly to school, 
whether he wrote notes at nineteen and dropped them in young ladies' 
gloves, or taught Sunday-school ? It certainly throws light on a woman 
when you discover that she does not waltz/' 

She pulled a rose-leaf. "You can't learn to waltz in the street 
with a postman." 

He laughed. " No, but come, at that summer place you were 
eighteen there must have been some man willing to teach you." 

" There were several," she gathered more leaves, " but they were 
school-boys in manners, if not in age." 

He considered her. " They were college boys, perhaps." 

" Some of them were older," she hesitated, " but they knew nothing 
between love-making and banter and silence I preferred silence." 

" Oh," he laughed again, " you were young to be so hard to please." 

She had quite a little heap of green leaves now. 

" I don't think I like men," she said ; " I like animals, dogs and 
horses and cows, and even even sheep," she gave him a fleeting smile, 
" but I don't like men much." 

Had she forgotten she liked him? He felt a desire to have some 
proof that she had not forgotten. 

" So," he said, " you are a misanthrope ; you must have found it 
hard in the city ; here in the country you will be happy ; Mrs. Gregory 
has a farm ; you need not even speak to us." 

She sorted her leaves into little piles in the palm of her hand. 

" Oh, I make exceptions." 

" You like Torry, for instance," he said. 

" Yes, I think I do like Mr. Torry," she answered, " one trusts him 
instinctively." 

" And Oswald," he persisted. 

" Oh, Oswald is Mrs. Gregory's son," she smiled ; " gratitude will 
teach me to like him in time. There's no hurry; he is not occupied 
with my likes and dislikes just now." 

" Then there remains me," said Dacre. 

She looked up at him, the moonlight on her shining hair, the dark 
shadows cutting sharply the delicate lines of her face. 

" Then there remains you," she repeated, and there was a moment's 
silence ; " and Miss Snowdon said a cousin of hers was coming to 
dinner to-morrow; she did not mention his name." 

Dacre made an impatient gesture of his hand, as if to wipe out the 
cousin. " So I am dismissed," he said slowly, " I am not to be docket- 
ed, * to be trusted,' like Torry, I am no relation, like Oswald, so I drop 
easily into the great category of the men you do not like." 

A fiery dart ran through her left side. She put her hand there to 
cover what beat so tumultuously, and took one second of time to gather 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 307 

quiet, and then looked up at him. They stared at each other through 
the moonlight. 

It was Starr who spoke. 

" I am to have no answer/' he said ; " silence means assent ! And 
I have been wondering what beneficent deity transported you hither! 
If you are going to be unkind to me I shall fall a-cursing instead of 
blessing him it is more in my present line, at any rate/' 

The girl forgot question and answer in a deeper feeling. She still 
looked up at him, and her eyes gained a tenderness that enveloped him 
like the soft breath of a summer wind. 

" Are you still troubled ?" she said gently. " Do you still wear that 
awful look when you read your paper ?" 

Starr nodded, looking down at her. 

" ' And wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter 
darkness/ " he quoted. " After I left you in the winter-time I fell into 
worse ways I would not like to tell you of them. I lost money, repu- 
tation, even drained my horrible good health a little. I did feel hope- 
ful of falling ill and dying comfortably in my bed in the spring-time, 
so I went to a nice, unhealthy spot and lingered there two weeks, but, 
bless you, I was born to be hung! The fever dried out of every pool 
as I approached it. The whole place grew salubrious." 

She stared at him, speechless. He smiled down at her, and catch- 
ing the end of a little scarf she wore twisted it in his fingers. 

" I'd like to take you there some time," he continued, " not to give 
you a fever, be it said," he laughed, " but to show you the place. I have 
a strange affection for it. I used to go there when I was a boy and 
people thought less of whether places were healthy or unhealthy. It 
belonged to the uncle of a friend of mine, and we spent weeks explor- 
ing the neglected woods and canoeing in a big lake in the midst of the 
forest. Last spring I walked about the deserted garden, for since Mr. 
Bentley died the place has never been sold, and strolled through the 
beautiful woody paths and felt felt more solitary than any speech can 
convey so utterly, utterly alone." 

He stopped and stood with his arms hanging at his sides, his eyes 
looking past her. The intensity of her glance shone on him through the 
darkness. 

" It was because you chose," she murmured. " You need not have 
been alone, surely, you must have many friends.''" 

Eousing himself, he shook his head. 

" No one has many friends." he said. " When Wetherall died I 
lost the one intimate friend I had. He it was who took me to Bentley 
as a boy, we were at college together, in the law. everywhere we stood 
side by side ; he died two years ago the worst day of my life, bar none 
bar none. But what a lugubrious companion I make. Forgive me ! 



308 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

I am not this way with other people. I am thought to laugh and joke 
too much, and only with you, under the power of those wonderful eyes, 
do I bewail my sorrows so freely. Forgive me/' 

She put out her hand in protest against his words and, catching it 
in his, Starr raised it to his lips, then released it as Mrs. Gregory's voice 
called through the garden. 

" Dacre," came the summons, " the Fultons are here, and Elsie says 
you promised to play a waltz." 

He gave a little groan of impatience. " Very well," he called, " we're 
coming," and they walked in silence through the garden by the ter- 
races and into the drawing-room. 

It seemed to her that Starr shook hands with a dozen strangers, 
that he laughed with a special jest for every man, pressed the fingers 
of each woman with some fresh piece of personality, and when he sat 
down to the piano and brought out rhythmical chords that vibrated 
with life and good-fellowship she could not bear it. She moved with 
her quick, gliding step towards the window. Just as she slipped through 
Mrs. Gregory caught her. 

" My dear," she began, but the girl interrupted her gently. 

"Not to-night," she said, "not to-night, forgive me, but I cannot 
face the lights and the music ; see, I'll take this," and she gathered up 
a little shawl that lay on one of the porch chairs, " and I'll take one turn 
in the garden and go to bed. You understand, don't you, dearest lady ?" 

" My child, I do,", and the older woman pressed her fingers as they 
parted. 

VII. 

THEY sat on the wide porch drinking tea, over which Miss Snowdon 
presided, for Mrs. Gregory was paying visits. 

" Roger Anders is coming this afternoon," Miss Snowdon an- 
nounced ; " Mrs. Granville is going to drive him over." 

There was silence. 

" H-m-m !" her eyes travelled over the group. " How delighted you 
all are to welcome my cousin ! And Mrs. Granville would be pleased 
indeed if she could see the reception you give her holy name." 

Torry held out his cup. " You forget the weather," he said. " Mrs. 
Granville is charming with the thermometer below fifty, but just think 
how we'll all have to move about! When she sends Oswald to the 
carriage for her handkerchief, and Dacre to the garden for a rose, and 
me into the house for a copy of ' Dante ' she has misquoted, you will 
understand why we aren't wild with joy at the mention of her name." 

Oswald and Dacre laughed with emphatic nods of approval. 

" You gallant heroes !" Miss Snowdon sneered, " I can't think what 
men want ; there used to be two types of behavior, and we could choose 
the one we liked either they, waited on us or we waited on them; 
now there's nothing doing, if s very dull !" 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 309 

" It's a shame/' Torry gazed speeulatively at her ; " I didn't know 
you wanted to play Catharine to my Petruchio; but it'll be all right 
when Roger comes, he's better fitted to the part." 

"Why will it be all right when Roger comes?" demanded Betty 
aggressively ; " I dislike Roger, and so does Florrie." 

"Do you?" returned Torry ironically. "You show it very oddly 
then; there he is; now let's see you freeze him with your proud dis- 
dain. He's alone too, by Jove ! not even Mrs. Granville to shelter him. 
Have at him, ladies !" He dropped back in his chair and watched 
them. 

Betty stiffened, Florrie flushed and nodded to the newcomer as he 
approached from the side of the house, walking over the grass with the 
bridle over his arm, his horse following him. 

Oswald got up with his usual reluctance. 

" Glad to see you, old man, give me your horse." He took the 
bridle from his guest and wandered round the corner of the house, 
calling on the coachman and stable boys. 

Mary sat quite still as Anders greeted the two girls and exchanged 
nods with the other men. Then he turned to her, his eyes shining. 
There was an awkward pause. Then Betty introduced him. He held 
out an eager hand. 

" Mr. Anders and I have met." The girl gave him the faintest 
possible salutation, and her manner fell like ice on the air, and An- 
ders drew back and bowed with equal coldness. Then he stood a mo- 
ment looking down at her, with his thumbs in the pockets of his riding- 
breeches. " Miss Ronalds and I are old friends," he said, and the 
intonation was enough to make everyone chatter gayly it was a feud 
in their midst that caused all lesser warfare to disappear; even Torry 
could not laugh when Miss Snowdon drew Anders to the terrace and 
coquetted with him. Dacre took Miss Snowdon's place at the tea- 
table. It brought him next to Mary. 

" Will you come for a walk ?" he said. " Do. We aren't bound to sit 
here like so many old maids in the sun." 

She looked at him, her eyes brilliant, as though she had taken a 
dose of something that had dazed her. 

" You mean cats," she said, " don't you ?" 

" Perhaps I do," he answered, " or lizards, or toads, or anything 
else, but come I'm tired of everyone but you." 

She shook her head. The girl was transformed : the white of her 
face snow white, the pink bright in one spot on each cheek; her eyes 
like bits of an iceberg, and her lips savagely compressed as with armed 
resistance. 

t<r There are times," she said, " when one stands one's ground ; this 
is one of them. I'm usually easily led," for a moment her eyes soft- 



310 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

ened into his ; she smiled, then froze back into her arctic beauty, " but 
now now let him go first." 

Dacre poured out a cup of tea, exchanged shots with Torry, but 
when Anders and Miss Snowdon had wandered down the garden he 
turned to Mary again. 

" Now come, the enemy has retreated, come." He rose, and going 
into the house, brought out a parasol for her and opened it. "You 
have never been in the wood, have you ?" he said. " I'll show it to you ; 
we go to the front of the house, back by the drive." 

Again she shook her head, and taking the way to the garden, bal- 
anced the parasol lightly behind her. 

"We'll go to the sea," she said; a hard defiance vibrated in her 
voice, and Dacre walked beside her, speechless for wonder at her. She 
talked as he had never heard her, of a visit she had paid with Mrs. 
Gregory in the neighborhood, of the people who had been so good to 
her, of a young man who had asked her why she had not come to the 
dance that night a chatter that left him nothing to do but study 
her carmine lips and azure eyes. 

All this until in the garden they passed Miss Snowdon and her 
cousin, and Dacre caught the dark, resentful look that Anders threw 
for an instant on the girl who sauntered slowly along, pouring out her 
flood of chatter, her eyes resting a moment on him as they passed, as 
though he were a stock or a stone. They walked on and reached the 
gate, they turned; Miss Snowdon could be seen mounting the terrace 
steps, her escort beside her. 

Dacre folded his arms. 

" Now I must understand," he said ; " tell me what all this means." 

She looked at him. Her lips curled in her lovely smile, the hectic 
flush faded from her face and left it with its natural tender bloom. 

" You are " she said. 

He stared down at her and, kicking the gate with his restless foot, 
shrugged his shoulders. 

" Nothing," he returned, " neither guardian nor husband. You 
can refuse to answer, and if cruelty is your humor, I shall suffer." 

She turned away and, leaning on the little wall, felt the joy of it 
all through her ; he cared a little at least ; it displaced the thought of 
Anders. 

"Can I make you suffer?" She was not looking at him, but at 
the bits of cement she arranged on the wall in a row. 

Dacre drew within a step of her. 

" Are you like other women ?" he said slowly ; " if I say yes, will 
you try?" 

She pushed her bits of cement into a heap. 

" Not for one breathing-space of time." she answered. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 311 

He was so near her he could have put his arm about her from where 
he stood. 

" I will confess then," he spoke very low, " I'm so jealous I could 
snarl at him like a dog ! What power has he to move you so ?" 

" I told you I didn't like men ; my experiences of them ' have been 
unlucky Mr. Anders is one of them/' she broke off. " Oh, why speak 
of him, you and I, here in this place where I am so happy ! Don't let's 
soil the air with his name. Mr. Starr, you say you like me," she 
stopped, breathless, " at least that much I gain from your words." 

" You do, do you ?" He looked into her eyes. " Wonderful wise 
woman. You've made out that I like you." 

" You even did the night we met," she broke off again. 

" Even then." 

" We are friends, then, aren't we ?" she went on, " we are friends, 
and I want you to promise that you won't vanish again as you did that 
you will be somewhere somewhere, that if I need you I can call on 
you." 

The young man turned from her and, facing the sea, stood beside 
her. 

She looked at him with eyes that had lost their joy. " You mis- 
understand me," the words stumbled from her. " Did you do that be- 
fore? Was that why you ran away from me? I only ask for what 
many women have a score of, a friend." 

The tone of her hurt voice reached him through the dark thoughts 
he had dropped into. He turned to her. 

" You have him already," he said gently, " ever since our eyes met ; 
only he ran away for reasons reasons of his own. But he won't do it 
again." He straightened his shoulders. " While I live I am at your 
disposition utterly. Does that satisfy you?" 

She gave a little nod and studied his face. What was it she saw 
that she could give no name to ? 

" I'll not ask questions, but sometime you'll tell me about Anders, 
won't you ?" he said. " You know one tells one's friends one's secrets 
sometimes," he smiled at her tenderly. 

" I know," said the girl slowly, " you shall have mine, if you want 
them, but may I not have one that bad one of yours in exchange?" 

His eyes flashed into hers. "What bad one?" 

" I don't know its name," she faced him, " but I see its mark." 

" Do you ?" He stared at her, his lips parted, and he broke into a 
short laugh. " It's a year old, and you're the first person that has 
caught even a sight of its hoof as it ran to cover ! Come, let's have a 
bit of a walk by the sea and brush these cobwebs away," and they 
strolled alon^ the fields until dinner-time. 



312 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

VIII. 

THERE were to be two more tableaux, but Mary felt as though she 
had seen Dacre make love to enough women, for it resolved itself into 
that, it seemed to her with Betty, who had taken the part of Jeanie 
when she refused to act, and then Florrie, as the milk-maid. Oswald 
was a very nice cow with a crumpled horn, and Torry an excellent dog 
that worried the cat, but why must Dacre be the man all tattered and 
torn? 

She slipped away from her place at the back of the room, and walk- 
ing along the piazza she entered the house again at Oswald's smoking- 
room, which opened also on the long piazza. She stopped a moment to 
look about her. It was a characteristic room, crowded with pictures of 
animals, with guns and riding-sticks; not a book to be seen, barring 
a pile of text-books on the little-used desk, and over the mantelpiece 
grinned a magnificent leopard's head, the lip just ruffling over the white 
teeth, the eyes gleaming. 

She heard a step behind her and turning saw Anders. There was a 
long moment of silence in which the girl, resting her arm on the man- 
telpiece, steadied herself and faced him with so fierce a courage that 
a fresh wave of admiration broke within him, to see so gentle a crea- 
ture so ferocious in her pride. 

He stood with his back against the door by which he had entered, 
with no dramatic intention, but with an instinct to bar the passage; 
he had at last found her alone, he must not let the moment slip. 

He looked, had she had eyes to see it, at his best in the evening dress 
he wore. His audacious ease in the world and indolent enjoyment of it 
made him appear better in its livery than in more informal garb, and 
the flagrant materialism in him was refined by the austerity of the 
severe lines of black and white. 

" Mary," he began, his voice was always low and persuasive, but 
she shrank from the implied intimacy he could so well express in its 
flexible tones, " Mary, how long am I to suffer ? I thought the days 
of the rack and screw were over until I came to this place." 

She had gained that luminous, icy look that Dacre had so wondered 
at. She spoke. 

" Then go," she said. 

The color stung his cheek. 

" And leave you to be made love to by a man who will forget you 
in a day?" The answer sprang from him, then he made a step forward 
as though to withdraw it. " Forgive me," he added very low. " What 
right have I left myself to protect you ? I, who have blackened myself 
utterly in your eyes?" 

Mary had turned to the hearth and looked down at the branches 
of oak that filled it with their green. Her lip quivered. Had Dacre not 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 313 

fled from her once? Might he not do so again? The truth of An- 
ders's words cut her to the quick. 

He saw it and made another step towards her. " I am not going to 
stay here to annoy you now/' he said hurriedly, " I only want to beg you 
to wipe out the whole past between us, and when we meet again let me 
make a fresh start. There are some memories not all against me, are 
there not? You did not value my desire to serve Mrs. Peyton, but I 
think I did alleviate those long, miserable days a little, and that she 
felt some affection for me, as I did for her. Heaven knows what I 
would not have done to have spared you both those wretched months 
that in my helplessness almost drove me mad did drive me mad in 
that horrible last hour when I spoke to you. But forget it all, forget 
that you have ever known me, and let me come again sometime and try 
to win 3 7 our friendship. I will go; I cannot leave the countryside to- 
morrow, but I will make some pretext in a day or two and relieve you 
of my my obnoxious presence." 

The last words sounded so bitter in their humility that she raised 
her head and looked at him. He cared, really cared; he had forgiven 
the way in which she had brought him under the curious scrutiny of 
amused and unfriendly eyes. Perhaps he really loved her; it was not 
all unworthy, and if a man loved, this was what he felt, He spoke, he 
proclaimed it and Starr she made a gesture of utter weariness. 

" Leave me," she said, " leave me," and the door was thrown open 
and Oswald flung into the room, his rouge-pot in his hand. 

" Good gracious, Mary/' he exclaimed, " you here ! and Eoger ! 
What are vou doing here? I thought you two fought like a cat and 
dog!" 

It was so characteristic an utterance that the air cleared of its elec- 
tricity, and the girl drew herself together. 

" So we do," she answered, with a fervor that brought Oswald's as- 
tonished stare back to her face, "but Mr. Anders came with a flag of 
truce to to ask permission to bury his dead. It's granted. I with- 
draw from the field of battle for an hour." And with a little nod to 
them both she turned and left the room, her step treading the earth 
with its usual smooth motion. 

Oswald looked at his guest. 

"Turned you down, has she?" he said, and standing before the 
glass he addressed himself to his toilet. 

Anders strolled to the doorway and turned a moment. 

"Not exactly," he said slowly, "but our relations are not easy to 
describe, old fellow; they are none the less interesting," and he saun- 
tered back to the drawing-room. 

The girl slipped through the house and out into the garden and 
through the little gate that led towards the meadows. She was pur- 



314 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

sued by a waltz they were playing, and felt as though she could not 
sit in her room and listen to the music, and so made her way through 
the rough grass until she came to a wide stone wall, and here she could 
hear the sea break on the shore not far away. The sounds from the 
house were lost. The night was light ; there was a wonderful stillness 
over the fields. She stooped and touched the blades of grass and, lift- 
ing her hand, brushed the dew on her lips. It felt so fresh and sweet, 
it seemed to wipe away the mark of the desecration through which she 
had passed on that terrible day two weeks ago, and all the memories 
it had brought with it of the summer-time in the city's heat. 

She sat on the wide, flat stone, with another below for her feet, for 
it was the stile of the sea-path; and sitting there, prayed that she 
might not become so exacting as to forget all that God had freed her 
from, prayed for power to meet life bravely. Sitting there she thought 
only that it was the clean, salt sea that she smelt ; that this was grass 
beneath her, not baked city stones ; that she had food and lodging, with 
no thought of the morrow, and a fresh, spotless dress to cover her. She 
looked down at her arm and stroked the white sleeve. Of the future 
she would not think awhile. God was good, and would help her to find 
her way; and her thoughts recurred, as they did always when she was 
alone, to Starr, and she longed to see him standing beside her. She 
wanted it with the yearning of a creature capable of a single passion ; 
there are only a few such beings. She thought of him till her eyes 
filled with passion, her lips trembled with his name. She felt the 
power to compel him to her. She passed in review the women she had 
seen in the gayly filled room, ending with Betty in her statuesque beauty 
and glow of youth, and she knew with a kind of conviction that he 
would leave them all for her. 

If he knew I was here, she thought, he would come; and at the 
thought she sat there riding the wall like foam on the sea, her heart 
big and joyous within her; then, as the time went on, a chill crept 
over her. Her last interview with Anders thrust itself in, and as she 
thought of him she slipped down on the lower step and rested her 
head on her arm. She laid her cheek on the cold stone. 

There was a sound surely on the path; she no longer listened to 
the sea, but heard the grass swishing under a human foot. She sat 
still, as though by moving she would break a spell. It came nearer, 
nearer, that step; it grew quicker, then stopped. It was beside her. 
She raised her head suddenly, like a startled deer, and faced him. It 
was he. The certainty ran through her veins and broke in her heart 
like a wave on the shore. He stood. and looked down on her; she drew 
herself up on the wall and, her hands clasped in her lap, looked back 
at him. 

" You hated the people, the lights, the music," he said, " and I 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 315 

I was part of it. I could not bear to be part of what you turned from, 
so I came away." 

"They will want you," she spoke breathlessly. 

" Why do you think so ?" His eyes wondered at the yellowness of 
her hair in the moonlight. " You haven't wanted me, why should they ?" 

She turned to the meadow. " Haven't I ?" 

"Have you?" 

Silence. 

" Darling," said the young man, " darling." 

Silence. 

" Ah," he murmured, " what a coward, what a knave I am ; what 
right have I what right ?" 

Silence, and a long break of the waves melting on the shore. 

" I must, by Heaven, I must !" Dacre caught her hand in his as it 
lay on her white dress. "I may have an hour to tell you how I love 
you, may I not ? May I not, my lady of light ?" 

The girl faced him. " An hour ?" she whispered, " why an hour 
only?" 

The young man drew near her and looked down into her face. She 
could not read his thirsty lips and hungry eyes. 

" What is it ?" she said hurriedly. " Tell me anything, any crime, 
any misery, even, in your life, I do not care what it may be, but tell 
me." 

" To think," he said, clasping her hands, " that I have lived one 
year with it, and no one has ever guessed what sent me mad. I'll tell 
you. I had meant to tell no one till I died. I've tried hard to die in 
some natural way, and then what need to tell the stupid secret of it? 
But wait. Tell me you love me first, let me kiss you first. I have no 
rights, but you will give them to me, and in a day or two it will all be 
over ; it's coming I feel it." He caught her in his arm and kissed her, 
and held her closely to him. She lay still and looked up at him with 
shining eyes. 

" Tell me," she said ; " it will be no longer between us." 

" Dear," he held her gently off so he could look down into her face, 
" I could have loved you so. Say that you would have loved me." 

She had no need to speak. Her head thrown back, she looked up 
at him. 

" I am I am going blind," he said slowly ; " it has taken longer 
than the doctor thought it will come suddenly it may come now 
it must come soon." 

His gaze melted into the luminous depths of hers. 

" I mustn't wait, I want to die first, if I can, not wait to know two 
kinds of death, one is enough ; I have thrown myself into every danger 
with the hope that it needn't be deliberate, in cold blood ; but the luck's 



316 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

against me'. Till now/' he tightened his arms about her, " now it has 
turned, I've had you, what a world of joy in an hour, love; and last 
winter I fled from you, thought how wicked it would be to try and steal 
you, when I had nowhere to plant you, love, and let you bloom. I was 
right then, but yet I am right now. You you don't grudge me this 
selfish joy I have been so unhappy." He crushed her up to him. She 
put her arms round his neck and pressed her lips on his. 

" I used to be a decent chap enough," he went on. " Ask them, ask 
any of them. I did the best I could with life, and it seemed a fair bit 
of work too; I was terribly ambitious, but it was an honest kind of 
feeling, and when this came it smashed my faith, my hope, my .very 
soul, to splinters. I did the things I had never done in my good days, 
I've been pretty bad ;" he looked again into her eyes. " Forgive me, 
forgive me, won't you? I'm sorry. I wish I had ridden straight and 
borne it better, but I couldn't for the life of me tell anyone, and it has 
been like the devil driving me to evil. I've done nothing base," he hes- 
itated ; " nothing I think God won't forgive sometime and now now 
time is nearly up. I went to the doctor the other day, and he said some- 
thing had happened, and that it would come fast. Well, I must go fast, 
that's all " 

Suddenly he felt her hold relax. She had fainted. Catching her 
tightly in his arms, he made his way to a little spring that bubbled 
down the corner of the meadow to the sea, and wetting his handkerchief 
he bathed her face. 

She moved, looked up at him, and came back to consciousness, 
blushed deeply, and drew away f ron> him ; then, memory coming more 
fully back, she threw herself on his breast in silence. 

" How cruel I've been," said Dacre, " how cruel and unfair." 

" Listen," she responded hurriedly, " listen to me. You say your 
life is of no use to you, of no value. You want to throw it away ?" 

They were strange words. He looked down at her. 

" Answer me," she whispered, " you don't want it for anyone else ?" 

He shook his head. 

" Nor for yourself ?" 

Again he shook his head. " Then, then " she stood straight beside 
him, her eyes looked into his " then give it to me." 

He caught her hands. " I would, I would, dearest, if it were other 
than a curse." 

" A curse ?" she quivered ; " well, then, curse me with it. I'd kneel 
and pray for such a curse." 

" Darling," he turned from her and leant on the wall where it rose 
high beside them. 

The girl laid her hand on his arm. 

" I understand," she said, " I'm not enough to live for well, then, 
do it, only I'll do it too." 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 317 

He turned sharply. 

" Do you doubt it," she said slowly ; " well, you will see when I join 
you on the road." 

The young man groaned and covered his face. 

She folded her arms tightly, her little shawl wrapped about her. 

" I have a plan/' she said ; " it has sprung all formed into my mind, 
and even the details of the way to do it. Marry me," she stopped, the 
bright color rising to her cheek, but drew away from the hands that 
sought her, " let us have what remains to us then let us try life under 
those changed conditions. I could I could help you, dear," she clasped 
her hands on his arm; "you could work, you could use your brains 
without with someone else to write your thoughts. If you were strong 
and courageous, you could do much we could do much ; and if after a 
time you did not think it worth while, why, we could die together. It's 
very simple do you see ? Answer me, you will do it ?" 

He stood, his arms folded on his breast, gazing at her out of his 
wide, dark eyes, with their gleaming corners. 

" Think of it, think of it," she went on steadily ; " I leave you to 
think of it, but know this, if ever you do this thing, I will follow you 
as fast as I can find the means, I swear it before God." She moved close 
to him, and looked up into his face with a kind of passion that claimed 
him, then suddenly fell weeping at his feet. 

He raised her in his arms and carried her towards the garden, and 
when they reached it she slid from him and up the path, and so entered 
the house by the hall door, and was up the stairs with her light foot as 

Starr turned back to the sea. 

IX. 

IT was to be their last day. Torry and the two girls were to leave 
on the following morning; Dacre was to go. to town with them, and 
perhaps return for a night or two longer at which last announcement 
Betty added just a shade or two more to her usual panoply of ennui. 
They were all to go on a picnic in the afternoon, on which Anders and 
half a dozen of their neighbors accompanied them, and they hitched 
farm-horses to the hay-carts half full of hay, and jolted laboriously a 
mile or so into the country, and then set up their encampment. 

Mrs. Gregory surveyed the scene with her usual kindly impatience. 
She drew Mary down beside her, as the girl was seeking sticks to aug- 
ment the already blazing fire. 

" Sit down," she said, " they don't need you. Let the men work, 
and that butterfly over there. She's actually setting the table! Who 
would suspect that Miss Snowdon knew where the forks went? And 
Betty cooking ! You young people are amazing foolish. We could have 
had a much better dinner at home with half the trouble ! Do you im- 



318 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

agine Betty's potatoes will be even half roasted ? ah ! I'm glad to see 
Dacre helping her. We may get a bite to eat." 

The girl beside her moved restlessly. 

" I should be getting wood/' she said, " the fire might go down." 

" Not a bit of it ! Look at that pile. I didn't know Eoger Anders 
ever did a stroke of work. You are all transformed. Torry, the only 
real worker among you, sits gazing in leisure at the swarming of the 
hive. Are you tired, dear ?" she added abruptly, " you don't look well." 

Mary rose and smiled down at her. 

" I'm hungry," she said. " It all looks very good, don't you think 
so ? I must start the kettle boiling," and she moved over to where the 
hampers lay and busied herself settling the alcohol lamp in a place pro- 
tected from any wandering breeze and establishing the kettle. 

Mrs. Gregory watched her. She was not long alone. Anders came 
to her, and the older woman could make nothing of their varying ex- 
pressions. 

" May I help you ?" began the young man. " Don't say ' No ' at 
once." 

She threw back her head and looked at him for a fleeting moment. 

He caught the proud glance of her eyes; he was so bent on his 
new plan that he did not resent it. 

" Mary," he went on hurriedly, " come for three brief moments and 
walk through the woods while I tell you what I have come to feel, and 
then I will say good-by to you for a while and leave you till you bid 
me come again. I go to-morrow." 

She stared at him, wondering whether such deliverance could be 
true. 

" Come," he went on, " will you not venture a few steps down the 
path with me?" 

She looked into the kettle ; it was not even steaming. 

" I'll talk to you until it boils," she returned with slow reluctance, 
and, turning, took the way down the path. Anders, as he swung into 
step beside her, caught Starr's eyes gleaming in their direction and his 
spirits rose. 

" Mary," he began, " I want once before I go to tell you how I love 
you, and how I stand eager and waiting for you to say a word of kind- 
ness. Our marriage could take place at any time at a sign from you. 
I'm all yours, and don't forget to think sometimes how much pleasure 
and beauty my money could bring to you. We could travel, we could 
build a house," he proceeded hurriedly, noting the flush that colored 
her cheek and the hesitancy of her step as she half-turned to go back, 
" we could buy beautiful things and give to others," he added, snatch- 
ing at each thought that might appeal to her. " Think of it, Mary, 
don't refuse to allow the thought to reach you. After all, love counts, 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 319 

doesn't it ? and devotion like mine is not like the admiration of a man 
like Starr, who'll never marry you, Mary, never." 

She had turned and was hurrying back to the fire. He caught her 
dress in his hand. 

" Mary, at least in return for the love I give you, at least do not let 
them all see how little you like my company." 

She slowed her steps, even Anders she hesitated to hurt when he 
made such an appeal, and they walked back to the kettle decorously 
enough, and as she sat down beside it and warmed the tea-pot no one 
could have guessed from her manner what her words to him were. 

" Go now, please go, I had rather be alone." 

Their supper, though eaten at the unearthly hour of five, proved a 
most appetizing meal, and there was little left to be decently buried, as 
Mrs. Gregory insisted that no solitary trace of their presence should be 
left. Miss Snowdon obligingly sang while they packed the dishes, and 
threw twigs at Oswald, who could not be persuaded to lend a hand or 
a foot. 

Mary sat in a kind of maze, smiling, answering when people spoke 
to her, trying to eat, but inwardly beaten upon by waves of sensation 
that made her heart tremble under their attacks. To be obliged to sit 
within ten feet of Dacre and never have a word from him that might 
not easily have been addressed to any of the others was an ordeal that 
left her no strength to attempt to secure his company on their home- 
ward journey, and she yielded to Mrs. Gregory when that lady per- 
suaded her to accompany her in a light wagon with Torry, instead of 
in the hay-cart. She did not see Anders and Dacre harnessing the 
horses together, and she was driving off when they turned, and, walk- 
ing through the woods, finished a talk that seemed to absorb them both 
and brought them back to the party in strangely differing mood : An- 
ders with a laugh ready at anyone's joke, Starr silent with an expres- 
sion of unapproachable blackness that left no possibility of his being 
disturbed. 

Anders had made swift use of the moments granted him. 

" Starr," he began, as he buckled the harness, " I want to speak 
with you a moment when you are through. Come for a turn up the 
path, I have something I want to speak to you about." 

Starr glanced at him over the horses' backs; he had never liked 
him, but, as they had been little thrown together, he had small knowl- 
edge of the other man to guide him. 

"I want to ask your judgment, your help," Anders went on hur- 
riedly, " here's Barton to finish up. Turn this way. I'll keep you but 
a moment." 

The two young men walked side by side up the green alley as it 



320 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

led to the depths of the wood. With an effort Anders made his be- 
ginning : 

" It's about Miss Konalds," he said. " I don't know whether you 
know that I I have been in love with her for a long time." 

Starr reddened. 

" I have observed," Anders went on, " that there is friendship, even 
intimacy, between you, and I want you to help me to persuade her she 
might do worse than accept the devotion I offer her." 

Starr stared straight ahead of him, his lips set. 

" She doesn't love me, you'll say," the other man glanced at the 
set profile beside him, " but, my dear fellow, I accept that, I only ask 
hep to let me give her everything I have, and, Starr, such love as I 
feel is not to be despised." He sought words to reach the man beside 
him. " She's poor, unprotected, delicate. I can change all that. She's 
noble by nature, and I, I'm prepared to change my whole life to 
please her. I have been," he hesitated, " well, not too particular in 
my view of pleasure ; that will be all done with if Mary will have me." 

There was silence. They took slow, deliberate steps side by side. 

"Life is not an easy battle for a girl to fight alone," Anders re- 
sumed, "and she has already had too hard a struggle. You will ask 
why I come to you," he hesitated, then added with an air of frankness 
that gave the words dignity, " it is because, to tell the truth, Starr, if 
you're going to marry her I had better know it and stamp out my feel- 
ing now. If you are not, well, then, I have a right to ask you to leave 
the coast clear for me." 

Their eyes met. Starr's look was one of such profound sadness 
that the keen, dark eyes of the other man left his face puzzled and 
wondering. 

Starr spoke. 

" You can give her position and money, man," he said, " but to be 
happy she will require more. Are you equal to the task of fitting your 
ways with hers?" 

He searched the dark, aquiline features before him with eyes that 
seemed at such moments to seize the secrets hidden from others. 

Anders faced him with the blood rising to his cheek. 

" I would serve seven years for her, like Jacob," he said slowly. 

Starr was silent. He stared out over Anders's shoulder into the 
green deeps of the wood. Anders struck one last blow. 

" Besides," he added slowly, " she misunderstood certain passages 
between us in the past. She thought I had given her up." He watched 
the young man's face to see how much Mary had told him nothing, it 
seemed, for it remained unchanged. " She now understands and for- 
gives me." 

At the last words Starr paled. He remembered that little walk 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 321 

she had taken in the wood with Anders, their amicable return; sud- 
denly the breach had been healed between them. It was true that 
Anders had much to give. In time she would like him, perhaps. The 
thought snapped the one link of that glittering chain she had put into 
his hand, whose strength lay in the thought he must not leave her com- 
fortless and lone. The beautiful, shining chain lay in the dust; its 
power to hold him to earth was gone. The old, dark resolution crept 
over him; and so long had he been in its power that it seemed to sit 
more easily on him than the new way had done. 

" I see," he returned slowly. " Well, then, as I can marry no 
woman, I will leave the coast clear to you. In a few weeks you will 
understand why I do so with such readiness. Come, we must go back," 
and he walked fast in the twilight, with Anders at his heels. 

Another day had come, and the coolness of early morning lay fresh 
upon the world. Mary rose and dressed while the sun slowly invaded 
the twilight air, and as she slid out into the garden the rose-color had 
spread all over the heavens, and in its shining the gardens and fields 
lay like places in the freshly discovered world. 

She stood a moment on the terrace alone, but only a moment. Starr 
joined her, and they stood silently together to watch the light spread. 

" It was good of you," began Starr slowly, " to come at this un- 
earthly hour " and he stopped, but she understood. The formal words 
told her what hours of talk might not have done how the fight had 
gone with them, how she had lost. She looked at him with her intense 
demanding, supplicating gaze, and he spoke almost harshly. 

" I was going," he began again, " I was going this morning with- 
out saying good-by, but I could not. It would have been wiser. You 
want as few memories of me as possible. The sooner you cut out of 
your remembrance every page I have darkened, the better. Begin 
soon and do it quickly; after all, there are not many." 

She walked quickly down the step and through the garden towards 
the sea. The magic of the scene gave a sort of vivid finality to Dacre's 
words. She would speak to him, but she never for one moment ex- 
pected him to yield. He did not love her enough; it was that which 
overwhelmed her will. What right had she to beg his life from him? 
What charm could she throw over it if he did not love her? Her one 
weapon had been her love; all-powerful if he answered to its spell, 
as she to his, but weak and impotent if he did not feel its mastery. She 
stopped at the stone wall they had so often passed and, leaning her 
slender hands on it, stood looking towards the sea. 

The young man stood close beside her, his arms locked on his 
breast, his eyes hungrily searching her face; the silence lay heavy be- 
tween them. He broke it in a tone of bitterness. 

VOL. LXXIV.-ll 



322 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

" I need not have armed myself so thoroughly," he said ; " you are 
already of my opinion and glad to be rid of your mad bargain." 

She turned on him fiercely, and with one look silenced his miserable 
words. 

" Mary, Mary," he cried, " forgive me, for I know not what I do. 
Let us part quickly, I cannot bear this pain." 

They stood close to each other ; she looked up into his eyes. 

" Don't look at me like that," he went on, " I cannot bear this 
pain. Don't you see, my dear, how it would never do? You have 
many years before you, and they will be happy. It will take a little 
time to wipe me out, fool, knave that I have been, to snatch at you as 
I have done; but you do not know, Mary, what your eyes can do, how 
they play on me, as though I were an instrument ; Mary, Mary, how I 
love them your eyes. Sinner that I am, they save me and lift me 
up. I believe in everything good while I look in them even that God 
will be kind and forgive me, Mary, for all my folly. Good-by." 

He knelt and touched his lips to the edge of her dress and stood up 
beside her, and, with a strange look, turned to go. 

The girl put out her hand and caught his arm. 

" One moment," she said, " give me one moment." She sank down 
on the wall and covered her face. If she had loved him less she could 
have used argument, could have thought of reasons that would have 
brought a dozen influences to bear. But she had never had authority 
with anyone, had seen life as a terrible struggle, had faced the thought 
of death as an outlet, and, never having thought of herself as one who 
had a right to happiness, as most young creatures do, she made no 
fight for her own life and love. For him she bowed to his decision, 
and her very love took her weapons from her. How could she press 
herself upon him if he would have none of her? 

But one moment, that surely was hers. She stood up, and, draw- 
ing near him, he moved quickly to meet her. She looked up at him to 
stamp one last sight of him into her memory. 

" I have nothing to say," her voice was hardly more than a whis 
per, " only I love you, and I shall go too, the way you go." 

He did not believe her. He knew how great a step that one step is. 
He looked fondly down into her lovely face. 

" No, no," he shook his head, " you will stay, Mary, find happiness, 
and forgive me for my love. Good-by." He caught her in his arms and 
kissed hor once, then turned and left her, and as she saw him disap- 
pear from sight she slipped down on the grass and lay there, till the 
pain would not let her be still, and, wide-eyed, dumb, and steady, she 
took her way to the house, and so said good-by to Mrs. Gregory's guests. 
Dacre had gone before. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 323 

x. 

THERE had come a fair, shining day of mild, golden beauty, such 
as often strays amid the brisker tones of a New England October. The 
sun had risen with its usual solemn beauty on a wondering world 
whose freshness held the untouched spirit of all dawns, and, with her 
arm resting on the window-sill. Mary watched the spreading light, on 
her knees. She had, fond worshipper that she was, her reliques in her 
hand, and it was not to the sun that she gave her prayer. She held 
the only two notes that Starr had written her one when he had left 
her in the city full of men, the other she had received five weeks before 
on that late day in August when he had asked her to meet him in the 
garden. 

As the day advanced she dressed and went down to an early break- 
fast, for at her earnest request Mrs. Gregory had found her work and 
she went every day to catalogue an old lady's books. She lived her 
days steadily through, though she woke always at dawn and could not 
sleep again for horrible fear of what she should find in the paper in the 
morning. She worked over the musty books, and kept her head clear 
enough to write the names as she read them, and stumbled into her 
bed at night, dropping with the fatigue such a high pitch of emotion 
brings. Mrs. Gregory petted and tended her, let her do the work, be- 
cause of the passionate appeal the girl had made, and tried to guess 
what haunted her, for from herself she could draw no word. 

Breakfast was on the table, but Mrs. Gregory was not yet down, and 
Mary poured out her own coffee. A pile of letters was at Mrs. Gregory's 
plate. She looked them over, and among them was one for her. It 
was from Starr. 

She sat down at her place and tried to drink a little of her coffee 
then opened it. It contained but four words, they stood out upon the 
page, 

" My lady of light." 

r She folded the paper and, putting it into its envelope, buttoned 
it into her dress with the others, then tried to go on with her break- 
fast. 

At first it only conveyed to her that he had thought of her, and 
she was so happy, so happy that he still thought of her, that she felt 
the joy of it pour strength into her limbs. Then there crept over her 
a sort of wonder that he could have forgotten his resolution ; it was 
not like him, unless there was some reason and the reason flashed into 
her brain. 

It had happened he was going this was good-by. 

She sat and drank her coffee and ate some bread. Full formed, 
there sprang into her mind her intention; her will stiffened like iron 



324 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

in her. She rose, and calling a servant, told him to tell Mrs. Gregory 
that she had to go to town, that she would come back that night or the 
next day, and, running up stairs, sought her room. She gathered 
the little roll of notes that remained to her from what Mrs. Gregory 
had first sent her; she put on her hat and coat and picked up a book, 
a copy of Poe's poems which she had been reading. It would give her 
protection in the train, as something to fix her eyes upon ; and, running 
down stairs, she fled out of the house and to the station. There was 
time just time to catch the train. It moved out as she dropped into 
her seat and, fixing her eyes on her book, she quieted her hurried 
breathing. She read mechanically the lines, 

" Thank Heaven, the danger, the crisis is past, 
The fever called living is over at last," 

and, leaving the book open before her, sat staring at the page while the 
words went over and over within her. 

She reached the town at last and went to the ticket office. The 
postmark on her letter had been Eastgate, the name of the old de- 
serted place where he had stayed as a child. She remembered how 
he had described to her his walks about the neglected garden and 
through the wood and to the lake ! The last word, as it came to her, 
struck her like a blow. 

" Yes, Eastgate was reached from the same central depot ; the ticket 
would be forty cents; it took an hour to reach it. A train went in 
half an hour." 

All this information was hers in a moment, from a curly-haired, 
cynical-mannered clerk, who stared at her but did not look as though 
he would know her the next minute. She bought her ticket, and then 
getting a newspaper, she looked through it with frightened eyes and 
threw it down with a sigh of relief; then, sitting in the waiting-room, 
watched the people come and go, until at last she heard her train called, 
and faced towards Eastgate with a rigid expectancy. 

She reached it at last, and stood solitary on the platform, then, 
gathering her nerve, she approached a man who stood near the baggage- 
room and watched the train depart. 

" Did a gentleman arrive here yesterdaj'," she began with some hesi- 
tation, " a gentleman who was not well ?" She stopped. 

The man looked at her and turned his bit of straw from one corner 
of his mouth to the other. 

" Do you mean one of the residents," he said, " or a stranger ?" 

" A stranger," she answered. 

He sat down on the baggage truck. 

" There were a couple of gentlemen come down here yesterday," he 
said, " latish, one of them was blind." 

She stared at his unmeaning face. 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 325 

" Was they the ones ?" he added. 

She nodded, she could not speak. 

" Well, they went to Bentley's, drove over there, and the one that 
ain't blind he come back this mornin' and went to town." 

" I I see/' said Mary. " How far is it to Mr. Bentley's place ?" 

" A couple of miles, I guess." He eyed her with more interest. 

" Can I get any kind of wagon here ?" she asked. 

He shook his head. " Nary one, except you telephone over to 
Rhodes's from the post-office, and Rhodes's is a good way. Those gen- 
tlemen had a team from Rhodes's, but they telephoned ahead." 

" I see /' it seemed the easiest form of words. " I must walk, then ; 
will you tell me the way ?" 

He waved his hand. " Right up the highroad," he said, " till you 
come to a sign that says, ( One mile to Bentley Wood/ and then you 
take that road, and it leads you straight to the gate-posts of Bentley's 
place ; there ain't but one." 

She thanked him and started, walking rapidly along the road he 
had indicated, her pulse beating quickly, but her limbs feeling like 
wooden things without life. 

It seemed a long two miles. She passed at first some houses far 
apart, but from the time she read the sign-post and took the road to 
Bentley Wood she saw no tokens of life. She came at last to where the 
meadows, from being dotted with trees, lost all semblance of clearing 
and became woodland, and in the thick of this she saw a road that led 
off from the one she pursued and was distinguished by two old stone 
posts, an iron gate hanging open on its rusty hinges. 

There were marks of wheels, making a rut in the soft brown earth, 
for it had rained a day or two before. She followed them, gathering 
swiftness as she went, and in a few moments, rounding a curve in the 
woody road, she saw a house standing blank and neglected, the vines 
hanging in masses on the stone porch. It struck a sort of chill in her 
that she saw no window open; but, walking round the house, she 
came suddenly on a woman who stood in the sunshine hanging some 
clothes on a bit of line. She looked a decent old creature, and Mary's 
heart steadied its beat. The two exchanged glances as Mary approached. 
She stopped, the blood warming her cheek. She was breathless with 
her quick walk. 

" I have come to find Mr. Starr ; is he here ?" she said. 

The woman nodded. 

The girl felt her limbs failing her, and grasping the edge of the 
frame porch, she leant against it. 

"Is he in the house?" she said. 

The woman dried her hands on her apron deliberately, then an- 
swered, 



826 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

"No, miss." 

The girl straightened like an arrow. 

"Where is he?" she demanded. 

The woman hesitated. " Well, Miss, it's odd, but he's out in the 
woods, and I told Abe I didn't think he'd ought to have left him there, 
but he said he guessed Mr. Starr knew his own business and that he 
did too. He's mighty clever about it, Miss. I expect he'll get back 
safe enough, poor gentleman." 

"Where is he?" the girl repeated. 

Again the woman hesitated. 

" Well, he's somewhere in the woods, Miss, and he took some food, 
some bread and a flask of water, and he says he'll stay there a while, 
and we are not to expect him until this evening. He seems so sensi- 
ble, Miss, it didn't seem a bit queer when he settled it, and he's so easy 
and masterful like, and we'd seen him this spring and got used to his 
queer ways but perhaps it don't seem a very good plan." 

" Which path did he take ?" Mary turned to the wood. 

"That one, Miss; it's wide and easy till you reach the lake. It 
winds, but it goes along all through the wood smooth enough." 

The girl nodded and departed. She waited till she was hidden by 
the trees, then she took to running, and then she dropped into a walk 
again, perforce, her strength failing her. 

It was a lovely place; some trees had turned, but many kept their 
green, and the bushes were thick with leaves bronzed at the tips. The 
damp earth was fragrant ; the sunlight shot through the trees in wide, 
soft shafts of light, and here and there the moss showed its emerald 
tone. She came to a place where the trees grew very thick, and then 
stopped and left an open, grassy square under the wide limbs of a 
giant ash. Every leaf had gone, but it stood majestic and beautiful 
without them. Her eyes plunged through the thicket about her. to that 
space of light, and there found what they had sought Starr was 
alive. 

She stood transfixed and gazed at him, then fell upon her face, 
and, hiding it in the moss at the foot of a tree, choked back her sobs; 
then silently, stepping lightly on the roots of trees and avoiding the 
crackling leaves, she drew nearer, a little nearer. 

He sat so that his arms rested on his knees, his face was covered by 
his hands. She stood, holding her fingers clenched behind her. Time 
passed, long, long moments, and then, her limbs sinking under her, 
she knelt on the ground, and, with her eyes fixed on him, waited. 

At last he drew his hands away with a deep sigh, and, stretching 
out his arms, clenched his fingers in the air before him, and then, let- 
ting them fall quivering at his side, he looked straight before him. 

The girl sat paralyzed with the agony of it; his eyes met hers, as 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 327 

it seemed to her, his beautiful, sightless eyes, then roved indifferent 
to a bush, and then the wide lids drooped, and with a groan he rose 
and took the path to the lake, slowly groping with his hands. She got 
stealthily to her feet and followed him. It did not occur to her to try 
to stop him; he had a right to choose his way; only as he made his 
choice, so might she make hers. 

He took the path with wonderful directness, stretching his arms 
before him and walking very straight, and suddenly the trees stopped; 
there was light, a shimmer of something; and, coming fast behind him, 
she saw that he stood on the margin of the lake. 

So soon. She drew a deep breath, but she was used to suffering; 
it did not occur to her to rebel, she understood. Unless he had loved 
her as she loved him, this was the way that spared him most. Why 
should he live for her? 

He stood, his head bent forward on his breast. She could not see 
his lips move, but she guessed that there was something, like a prayer 
upon them ; then he threw off his coat and waistcoat, and, standing in 
his white shirt, kicked off his shoes. As he did so, she heard him utter 
a short laugh, and saw him take a step among the reeds. 

She suddenly remembered hearing that he was a fine swimmer; 
he would be far from her in a moment. How could she follow the 
strokes of those strong arms? She must be near him; she did not 
want to die without saying good-by; she made a step forward. 

" Dacre," she whispered. 

The word shivered through the air like a sigh. 

The young man raised his head and listened. 

" Dacre," it came again like a voice in a dream. He listened to it 
without any belief in its reality, but it carried a strange consolation in 
its tones. 

She crept nearer. He heard the rustling of the leaves and turned, 
his eyes wide, as though to force sight into them. 

She stood, frightened lest he should be angry at her presence, but 
she must speak. 

"Take me with you," she faltered. "I was afraid you would go 
far out in the centre of the lake alone and I be here among these horri- 
ble grasses and reeds. I want to go with you." 

Her voice was faint and hoarse; he stood listening, as though it 
were the whisper of a wraith. 

She came nearer, she looked at him, and all at once her love broke 
through her fear, and throwing herself upon his breast, she caught him 
tightly in her arms. " Darling," she said, " I've come, you see kiss 
me first." 

Starr stood shaking all over holding her in his arms, and now he 
knew what she had come for. 



328 The Deep Waters of the Proud 

Mary laid her cheek on his shoulder. 

"Shall I go first?" she said, "and you can help me, darling, till 
we get far, far out come." 

His hands grasping her shoulders, he shook her gently. 

" Mary," he cried, " you are mad. Why should you die ? Go hack." 

She clung to him. " Never," she whispered, " never." 

" You don't understand what death means," he went on, " you who 
have light in your world, and this would be a slow death and for you 
horrible. Go back, forget me ! How I love you for coming ! Go back." 

" You think I don't mean it," cried the girl, " then see I'll go 
first." Eeleasing him, she faced the wide lake and, pushing her way 
through the water, struck out for the centre of it. 

Starr uttered a groan and, stumbling in after her, tried by the 
sound to gather the direction she had taken. 

With the strength of her fanatic nature she had made good prog- 
ress, though the water struck a terrible chill through her, and, turn- 
ing her head, called him while she still swam on. 

" Come, Dacre, come, I am here." 

Guided by her voice he swam rapidly towards her, tearing himself 
from the eelgrass that held him back, and reaching her caught her arm. 

" Mary," he cried, " this is madness, worse than madness. Go 
back ! go back !" 

She rested her hand on his shoulder, her strength leaving her sud- 
denly. 

"I can't," she said, and he heard the miserable triumph in her 
voice. - " Don't let us waste words, Dacre, put your arms about me. 
Darling, darling, it isn't like good-by, is it?" 

Starr felt her lips on his, and a pang ran through him like the 
thrust of a sword and left his blood aflame. 

" Could you do this for me ?" he cried. " I will do something for 
you in return. Come, darling, we'll get back, we'll try it your way." 

"Too late!" she dragged herself up to him and sought his lips; 
" my limbs are numb, I'm sinking." 

" Mary," he said almost harshly, " put your ha,nd on my shoulder, 
so ;" he caught her fingers and pressed them in place ; " now tell me, 
am I pointing for the nearest shore?" 

The girl was shaking with cold and weakness. " Yes." 
" Watch," he went on, " and don't let me lose an inch of land, for 
I am weak from eating little, and it's a pull ; but we'll make it, Mary, 
never fear. Now just keep your hands there, and don't try to swim 
until you get rested, and then help me if you can." 

He started with his sweeping, steady stroke, and the girl, half 
blind with the water that ruffled over her face, half sick with the 
new longing for life he had awakened, the new fear of death, and half 



The Deep Waters of the Proud 329 

drowned already, could just keep her stiffened fingers in their place; 
and now he went more slowly, and more slowly still. 

"Darling," said Dacre, "is it far?" 

" Not far now," she whispered, her voice torn with the water and 
the sobs in her throat, "not far now." 

" Is it much farther ?" he asked again. And they sank once, and 
Starr felt below him the oozy mud. The chill of the cold water numbed 
his limbs. He made a supreme effort, got them both to the surface, and 
took as many strokes as he could squeeze from his fainting heart, and 
sinking again with her he felt the solid ground. 

He rid himself from the water; he could stand, his lips out of it; 
and throwing himself forward, he got his ground, and then, taking her 
unconscious body in his arms, staggered along through the wide shal- 
lows to the shore and, reaching it, laid her down and fell beside her. 

It took him a few moments to get his breath, but a horror was 
shaking him in its talons that brought him again to his feet, Mary 
in his arms. He threw her over his shoulder and, with one arm out, 
stumbled about until he found the path at last; and, walking down 
it unsteadily, he groped his way along, staring ahead of him with ach- 
ing eyes. Again and again he struck his arm upon the boughs and, 
stumbling, nearly fell; but steadying himself, he overcame the powers 
that fought him and made his way. Eeaching the opening near the 
house, he staggered towards the doorway at the back. The woman had 
seen him and came running towards them with a white face. 

" Lead me," said Starr, his dark eyes gleaming, " I'll carry her in ;" 
and in a moment he had laid her on a bed in the room he had slept in 
the night before on the ground floor. 

" Brandy," he said, " she's half drowned ; let me hold her up, you 
give it to her." The woman in a moment was forcing the spirits be- 
tween her teeth, and she was answered by a long shudder which shook 
the girl's frame. 

Starr adjusted the pillow the woman gave him, settling it tenderly 
under her head. 

" Go and get some warm blankets," he said ; " I'll rub her hands 
and feet." He felt the woman stop and stare at him. " Hurry !" he 
added, "she's chilled through." 

He was alone with her. He knelt beside her, and holding her 
hands kissed them. 

She opened her eyes. " Do you love me enough ?" she whispered. 

He caught her in his arms. 

" Enough ?" he cried, " enough for ten lives too much for one." 
He rose as he spoke and turned towards the door. " Here comes Mrs. 
Derr with the blankets ; now you must be a good girl and rest." And 
turning back he smiled down upon her. 

Mary covered her face and wept. 



ROME AT EASTER 

WITH NOTES OF THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO AN 
ARTISTS' STUDIO 

By Maud Howe 



PALAZZO RUTICUCCI, ROME, Easter, 1900. 

BUONA PASQUA !" said Filomena when we came in to break- 
fast this morning. Her Easter offering lay on the table, two 
hard-boiled eggs in a little basket of twisted bread at each 
plate. Soon after Pompilia, our black-browed Tuscan cook, brought her 
inevitable regalo, a pair of lilac tissue-paper fans (she has a relative 
who works in the paper-factory). As I passed the door Pompilia's an- 
nual basket of flowers, sent by her cousins every Easter, was brought in. 
Jgnazio, the gardener, met us on the terrace with a pot of the biggest 
violets I have ever seen. 

" Only yourself, Signora, and the Princess Doria, in all Eome, have 
these magnificent violets, the last novelty from Londra. The Prince has 
just introduced them. His gardener is my friend; cost I am able to 
offer you this bel vasino dl fiori!" 

A little later Lorenzo, Villegas's factotum, arrived with a basket of 
lemons from the Villino garden, covered with their own glossy green 
leaves and intoxicating blossoms; the petals are thick, pink outside, 
white inside, like orange-flowers, only larger and with a less cloying per- 
fume. 

We were up on the terrace in time to see the Host carried through 
the street ; that procession was not allowed when we first came to live 
in the Borgo Nuovo. Little by little the old picturesque ceremonies of 
the Church are creeping back. It is a pretty sight. First march lovely 
little girls in white, scattering flowers; then come acolytes, deacons, 
young clerics I am hazy about their titles swinging censers, carry- 
ing the crucifix and banner; the arch-priest bearing the sacrament in 
a golden monstrance, over which he holds protectingly the sides of his 
long, stiff, embroidered vestment ; above his head a white-and-gold bal- 
dachin supported bv four young priests. The whole procession, children, 
acolytes, priests, attendant women in black veils, went singing across 
the Piazza of St. Peter's and down our street under a rain of pink and 
green disks of tissue-paper thrown from the windows in lieu of flowers. 
Across the street Giuseppe, the baker, in white cap and drawers, naked 

330 



Rome at Easter 831 

to the waist, stood at his shop door cooling his heated body. Behind 
him in the dark shop the boy opened the oven door and fed the flame 
with armfuls of brushwood, and we caught the roar and blaze of fagots 
in a fiery cavern. 

Giuseppe, a radical (the Parrocho says a Mason that means sure 
damnation), stood at his door as the procession passed and nodded to 
his little girl, the prettiest of the attendant cherubim dropping rose- 
buds. It is pleasant to see one's daughter chosen before others, and 
religion is an excellent thing in woman, according to Giuseppe's philos- 
ophy. The crisp, appetizing smell of his hot bread suggested lunch- 
eon, which, in honor of the festa, was served on the terrace. The 
atmosphere has been ecstatically clear and golden all day, the view sub- 
lime. Snow-clad peaks in the distance, the foreground purple, hazy, 
delicious. The bells of St. Peter's (silent since Holy Thursday) have 
made constant music in the air. A fine day with a trifle too much breeze 
for dignity; it blows the girls' curls and draperies, even the scant 
skirts of the young priest pacing back and forth on the monastery ter- 
race across the way, breviary in hand. He always ignores our pres- 
ence, looks through us as if we were made of glass; but I catch him 
gazing with longing eyes at our roses and lilies that nod and gossip be- 
hind their screen of ivy ; at the passion-flowers and honeysuckles, haunt 
of bee and butterfly. He knows, as well as we do, every stage of our 
roof-garden's history since that day six years ago when we potted the 
pink ivy geranium and the white carnation from the Campo di Fiori, 
the beginning of this earthly paradise. We have had a great deal of 
rain lately, which has been good for the yellow and orange lichens that 
enamel the tiled roofs all about us, and, alas ! very good for slugs and 
snails. As to wall-flowers, they simply ramp from every crack and 
cranny of the gorgeous cinque cento cornice with its sharp-cut egg and 
dart (symbols of life and death), fragments of which still cling to the 
inner walls of our court-yard. The wildflowers run riot over the Cor- 
ridojo di Castello, the quaint old fortified passage leading from the 
Vatican to the Castle Sant' Angelo. The Corridnjo, built of tufa stone, 
is two stories high; the upper story is open like a loggia, the lower 
closed, with little slits to let in the light. Just behind our palazzo the 
Corridojo crosses a back street by an enchanting arch, with the arms of 
the Pope who built or restored it carved on a stone escutcheon. In the 
old days the passage was used in time of danger as an escape from the 
Vatican to the fortress of Sant' Angelo ; the Pope himself always kept 
the keys, according to Patsy, who dropped in for tea and maritozzi 
and gave us a discourse on the subject. 

"Who keeps the keys now?" I asked. 

"Chi lo saf Since 1870 the Corridojo has been walled up. I once 
got a peep into it. 'Tis going to rack and ruin, which is a shame and 
disgrace." 



332 Rome at Easter 

"Whose fault is it?" 

" Chi lo sa ? Lay it to the municipality they deserve a few extra 
curses thrown in for luck, on account of the artificial rock-work with 
which they are defacing the Pincio and the Janiculum." 

" Perhaps the Corridojo is no-man's-land, now that the Vatican 
belongs to the Pope and the fortress to the King ?" 

" Chi lo sa ?" said Patsy again. " When the Italians came to Rome 
they meant to leave the Borgo under the temporal control of the Papacy. 
Consequently at the first plebiscite (October 2, 1870) no urn was pro- 
vided for the Borgo's vote. You don't suppose a fellow like that " he 
pointed to the baker " would let such a little thing keep him out of 
United Italy? The first returns of the day were brought in from this, 
the fourteenth, rione (ward) by two strapping fellows who marched 
up to the Capitol carrying between them a big urn with the votes from 
the Borgo. I have heard that your friend the baker's father was one 
of them/' 

" And this morning that man's granddaughter walked in the pro- 
cession of the sacrament !" 

" For the matter of that, here comes Prince Nero's grandson wear- 
ing the King's uniform. Both Blacks and Whites, Dio grazie, are fast 
fading into Grays/' 

Beppino, very stiff in his military togs, was shown up on the ter- 
race by Nena the shabby, who always manages to open the door to 
fashionable visitors. 

"How do you like your service, Beppino? Your uniform is very 
becoming," I began. 

"I don't like it at all! Fancy being obliged to clean one's own 
horse, to polish one's own boots it's not to be endured !" 

It has to be endured; and, moreover, Beppino is enormously im- 
proved by his six months' endurance of the obligatory military service. 
Those fiery brown eyes of his have grown serious. 

" Is it true that you voted at the last election ?" asked Patsy. 

" It is true," said Beppino. 

" How did your grandfather take it ?" Patsy persisted. 

" I asked the Prince's leave," Beppino replied. " He said that for 
thirty years he had obeyed the Pope and abstained from voting, that he 
was too old to change his politics, but that I was free to do as I liked." 

" How do you account for such an extraordinary change of heart ?" 

" It's all the Queen's doing : she is so good ; she is so clever. We 
Italians owe more to her than to anyone alive to-day !" 

Beppino is the son of the son of one of the stoutest pillars of the 
Church. 

" Avanti la caccia (on with the chase) !" Patsy and I had been 
snail-hunting when Beppino came up, 



Rome at Easter 333 

" Here is a sharp stick ; if you run it round under the edge of the 
flower-pot you will get them quicker. Snail, I condemn you to the 
parabolic death I" Beppino threw a large, fat snail out over the terrace 
wall. " That's the easiest way ; it spares our feelings and gives the 
snail a chance for his life. He disappears in a parabolic curve; he 
may fall upon a passing load of hay and be carried away to batten upon 
other rose-leaves." 

Suddenly, like lightning out of a clear sky, there appeared upon 
the peaceful terrace the Parroco, with two black-a-vised French priests. 
The Parroco apologized; he said the gentlemen were anxious to see 
our view. The elder Frenchman never looked at the view at all but 
examined the walls in a way I did not like. The Parroco is always a 
welcome, if scarcely an easy, guest. I hated his friends ; they glanced 
with so indifferent an eye at the flowers and seemed so much more in- 
terested in the chimneys that J. and Lorenzo had cleverly contrived 
to keep me warm. When at last the three black figures disappeared 
down the terrace stairs we other three drew a long breath. 

" Good riddance," said Patsy. 

" You have not seen the last of their cassocks nor them," said Bep- 
pino (he had an English nurse and governess, and speaks rather better 
English than most people). "I believe they mean to buy the palazzo 
over your heads. When will your lease be up ?" 

" In September ; but we have the right to renew." 

" No Eoman lease holds in case of sale," said Beppino. " You will 
find that clause in your contract. You will see I am right. Some time 
ago Sua Santita requested such religious orders as had no mother house 
in Eome to establish one here. During the Anno Santo many have acted 
on the hint and bought property in Eome. I heard my grandfather 
say there were some French monks looking out for a place near the 
Vatican. This is just the sort of thing that would suit them." 

Was not that a thunder-clap ? Characteristic too that Beppino, the 
astute Eoman, should first suspect it. When J. came home from the 
studio and heard of the priests' visit he said : " Beppino is right ; the 
Palazzo Eusticucci will be transformed into a monastery. They have 
already turned Mr. Yedder out of his studio after twenty years; we 
shall be the next." 

I can't and won't believe that this may be our last Easter here. 
Just as terrace and house have grown to fit us like soul and body, to 
be turned out into the bare, ugly world of hotels impossible ! 

The other day, when I was at the studio, J. told me that in conse- 
quence of the disappearance of ten francs he had finally decided to part 
with Pietro. He has often arrived at this decision before, but the crea- 
ture, with a sort of uncanny second sight, always disarms him just in 
time by some act of faithfulness, some pretty attention ; for Pietro is 



334 Rome at Easter 

one of those Italians with a real genius for service. I happened to be 
at the studio when he applied to J. for the place and overheard their 
conversation. 

" Signorino," Pietro began, " you are my unique hope ; do not 
abandon me, the poor disgraziato you have befriended so long; I re- 
gard you as my father." (Pietro is at least twenty years older 
than J.) 

" Where have you been all this time?" J. asked. 
" Signorino, it is necessary for me to tell you the truth ; if I did not 
some unsympathetic person might do so ; I have been in prison, though 
I am quite innocent." 

" What were you charged with ?" 

" It was that affair with Fagiolo the model ; you perhaps remember." 
" The time you bit Fagiolo in the leg and gave him such a coltellata 
(stab) that he had to be sent to San Giacomo (the hospital) ? I re- 
member." 

"La storia era molto esagerata, pero non potevo mat vedere quel 
'uomo (the story was much exaggerated, but I never could bear the 
sight of that man) !" 

J. remembered the affair, and thought Pietro had been rather hardly 
dealt with. 

"Since I was discharged it is impossible to find employment; no- 
body wants a man, however innocent, who has been in prison." 
" Where is your wife?" 

" Aime ! was there ever so unfortunate a man ? Zenobia, who, as 
you know, is a good seamstress and my sole means of support, broke 
her leg yesterday; this morning they carried her to the hospital of 
the Santo Spirito." 

J. engaged him on the spot, and Pietro has been in charge of the 
studio ever since. He has done very well ; the only trouble has been 
that small sums of money, cigarettes, and boxes of matches are always 
disappearing. J. has spoken several times to Pietro about it. He al- 
ways denies having taken anything. J. feels very half-hearted about 
sending him away; he says that it will be impossible for the man to 
get another situation if he dismisses him for stealing. Besides, except 
for the pilfering, Pietro is the very man for the place; he takes good 
care of the studio, knows all about cleaning palettes and washing 
brushes, keeps the court-yard neat and full of such growing things as 
can exist with the little sun that penetrates to it, and is devoted to J.'s 
happy family, which just now consists of Checca, the lame jackdaw, 
bought from some boys in the street who were tormenting her, a pair 
of ducks, a stray black dog, and the prettiest Maltese kitten you ever 
saw. 

The jackdaw, a most diverting bird, is as curious as a coon. The 



Rome at Easter 335 

other day she flew up on the easel from behind and pecked a hole in 
the picture on which J. was working. She put her closed bill through 
the canvas, then opened it wide, which made a straight up-and-down 
tear, to which the creature put her ridiculous eye and peeped through 
to see what J. was doing. 

" Do you really think Pietro is the thief ?" I asked. " It would be 
too suicidal in him to throw away his last chance !" 

"Just what Pietro says," answered J. ; "but who else can it be? 
There is a Yale lock to the door, with two keys ; I keep one, Pietro the 
other." 

While we were talking about him, Pietro came in to move an old 
stove which had stood in the corner of the studio all winter without be- 
ing lighted. J. is sending it, with other household stuff, to the auction- 
room. As Pietro moved the stove its door swung open and out rolled 
a quantity of cigarettes, matches, silver and copper coin, paint-rags, 
orange-peel, and among the rubbish a brand-new ten-franc note. 

" Caw, caw !" screamed Checca, flapping across the floor and scold- 
ing at Pietro. 

"Ail Madonna del sette dolori!" Pietro, swearing horribly, fell 
upon his knees, clasped his hands, invoked every holy thing he knew. 

"Santa Maria, ecco mi vendicato! Ai ladrone; ai birborne (be- 
hold me vindicated. thief ; villain) I" 

" Caw, caw !" screamed Checca, pecking at Pietro's legs. He was at 
first ready to wring her neck; then he grew lachrymose and tender. 

" Ai! ai! Pietro sfortunato! Guardi, Signora mia, was I not born 
unlucky? First I am sent to prison on the false oath of a rascally man. 
Adesso, anche la gazza m' inganna, perseguita me (now even the jack- 
daw deceives me, persecutes me) !" 

Plumped down on his knees there in the middle of the studio, poor 
Pietro began to cry like a baby. It ended in his getting the ten-franc 
note as a mancia (tip), and in Checca being so stuffed with good things 
that she is in a state of coma and on the verge of apoplexy. Truth really 
is stranger than fiction. I never before had much faith in the Jack- 
daw of Rhcims. 

June 9. 1000. 

As we sat at dinner last night a messenger from the Casa Reale was 
announced. J. went out to receive him in person. He had brought a 
letter from a great personage at court to say that the Queen would 
como to the studio the next day to see J.'s decoration for the Boston 
Public Library. That was rather short notice for such an honor, but 
we did all we could to make the old barrack of a studio fit to receive 
the dear and lovely lady. We were up at dawn. Pietro had already 
turned the hose on the brick-paved floors and stone steps. The first 
thing in the morning we were warned by the police that no one, not 



336 Rome at Easter 

even our servants, must know of the intended visit beforehand, so we 
gave it out that Lord Curry, the British Ambassador, was coming to the 
studio, which was quite true. J. had called up the Embassy, and Lord 
Curry had promised, by telephone, to be on hand. 

We telephoned the Signora Villegas asking if she could spare 
Lorenzo, who turned up at eleven with, I should think, every flower 
the Villino garden contained. The bouquet for the Queen I made my- 
self of flowers from the terrace gardenias, passion-flowers, and maiden- 
hair fern. We sent over to the studio from the house the fine old Portu- 
guese leather armchair in which my mother sat to Villegas for her 
portrait, some rugs, and the gold screens Isabel and Larz brought us 
from Japan. 

You never saw a more squalid street than the Borgo Sant' Angelo. 
I very much doubt if the Queen had ever entered so queer a door as 
the little antique green studio door with the modern Yale lock. The 
studio is up two long flights of stairs, with an iron railing, quite like 
a prison stair. If we had been given longer notice, we could have done 
more to make things presentable; but that was a mere detail. The 
main thing was that the afternoon was fine, the light perfect. The 
days here are so much longer than at home that the hour named, six 
o'clock, was the very best in the twenty-four to see the pictures. We had 
never really believed that the Queen would come to the studio, though 
we had heard of her interest in seeing the work. There is a sort of tra- 
dition that the royal family very rarely come over to the Borgo, out of 
regard for the feelings of the Pope. During the day one and another 
secret service men in plain clothes arrived in the Borgo on their bicy- 
cles, and lounged about the street corners or in the cafes. At five o'clock 
several guardie in uniform arrived. We went over to the studio at half- 
past five in order to be in time to receive Lord Curry. J. went by the 
Borgo Nuovo and stopped at the front of the Palazzo Giraud Torlonia 
(the studio is in the rear of the palace, with an entrance on the back 
street, Borgo Sant' Angelo) to ask the proud young porter of the Tor- 
Ionia to open the studio door and generally stand by us. The Hay- 
wards, who live on the piano nobile, are the swells of the Borgo; they 
pay the proud young porter his wages, and they are neri, neri, neri! 
Fortunately they are out of town, and will never know that we borrowed 
their porter to open the door to the Queen. 

"The Ambasciatore Inglese and other personnagie of importance 
are to visit my studio presently ; do me the favor to open the door for 
them," said J. 

" Volentiere, Signore mio, un momenta; I will change my coat and 
be with you instantly I" 

The nearest way from the front of the Torlonia to the back is by 
the Viccolo dell' Erba, a narrow little alley which runs beside the pal- 



Rome at Easter 337 

ace. We never use it 'tis so evil-smelling, badly paved, and generally 
poverty-stricken unless we are in a great hurry. J., being pressed for 
time, naturally took the Viccolo. He happened to be wearing a red cra- 
vat, in Italy, especially in Home, supposed to be the badge of the anar- 
chists, and avoided by the Romans, and, one would fancy, by the anar- 
chists accordingly. Of course, all the guardie of our quarter know the 
pittore Inglese by sight, but the extra ones detailed for the day did not. 
Hurrying through the Viccolo, J. ran round the corner into the Borgo 
Sant' Angelo and into the arms of one of these extraneous guardie, 
ordered to be on the lookout for suspicious characters. His eye caught 
the red cravat. 

" Scusi, Signore ; where might you be going in such a hurry ?" 

" I am going to No. 125, Borgo Sant' Angelo." 

"You have business of importance there, or you would not be in 
so much haste ?" 

" Yes ; I am late for an appointment." 

"With whom?" 

" That is a private matter and one which does not concern " 

At this hectic moment the proud young porter came hurrying along 
the Viccolo, buttoning his gold-laced coat as he ran. He took in the 
situation at a glance, and with the exquisite tact of his people went 
bail for the pittore Inglese without seeming to do so. 

" Is there anything I can do for you in the studio, Signore, before 
their Excellencies arrive ?" he asked. 

" You know this gentleman ?" demanded the guardia suspiciously. 

" Know him ! I have known him all my life ! It is the gentleman 
who occupies the studio in the rear of the palace." 

"A thousand pardons, Signore," said the guardia, with a magnifi- 
cent military salute. J. has to thank the porter for not having been 
detained as a suspicious person during the time of the Queen's visit to 
his studio. 

A minute or two before the appointed time we all went down into 
the vestibule. There was an odd, hushed feeling in the street : a water- 
ing cart had just passed ; the square, gray cobble-stones were still wet, 
the air moist. Pietro had found time to pull up the weeds and grass 
from the pavement (worn into ruts by centuries of cart-wheels) in 
front of our door, and to clear away the bits of watermelon-rind which 
the boys of the Borgo use as roller skates in a game that I believe is 
indigenous to our quarter. Just as the bells of the Castle Sant' Angelo 
were ringing six we heard the jangling of chains and the sound of 
trampling horses. We were all on the sidewalk as the carriage with 
the scarlet liveries drew up before the studio. The proud young porter, 
his hand on the knob of the studio door, made the most sumptuous bow 
as the footman opened the door of the landau. Lord Curry handed 



838 Rome at Easter 

out the Queen, presented J., then gave her his arm and led her up the 
dreadful long stair. Her lady in waiting, the Duchess Massimo, and 
the gentleman of the court in attendance followed, looking aghast and 
rather scornful at the queer steps; but the royal lady never flinched; 
she walked up the stairway with as gay and light a step as if she were 
treading the royal red carpet of the Quirinal. Once in the studio, 
one lost sight of the royal personage in the connoisseur, the lover and 
patron of art. It is no wonder that the artists look upon her as their 
friend. To her, art is one of the serious concerns of life, one of the 
matters which it is her duty as a sovereign, as the mother of her people, 
to foster by every means in her power. 

She looked at the decoration from every point of view, asked many 
questions about its destination. She knew of the Boston Public Library, 
and said many pleasant things of it, and of J.'s ceiling for it. She 
liked the funny old studio, with its big fireplace, its enormous window, 
and explored it with the fresh curiosity of a young girl. She asked what 
this and what that picture was, insisted on being shown canvases that 
stood with their faces to the wall. The portrait of the Duke of Cam- 
bridge which J. made last spring was standing on an easel. She laughed 
heartily when she saw it and said, " It is so exactly like the old man 
that it makes me laugh." 

They stayed half an hour. Part of that time the Queen sat in the 
old Portuguese leather chair in which our own dear mother-queen so 
often sat when she was with us. As they went away, the Duchess 
Massimo said to me, 

" I assure you the Queen has been much interested and much 
pleased." 

We all went down to the carriage ; the Borgo was one compact mass 
of people. We watched the carriage drive away, caught the sweet part- 
ing smile of our lovely visitor, and then went back to the studio to talk 
it all over. In a few minutes two of our best friends turned up. They 
had come over by chance to have tea at the studio, and had received 
quite a sensation at seeing the royal carriage with the scarlet liveries 
standing before the shabby old green door, and the Borgo crammed with 
the Eoman populace. 

July 16, 1900. 

On Saturday evening as we sat at dinner another messenger from the 
Casa Reale was announced. He brought a letter from the Countess 
Villamarina, the Queen's maid of honor, to J., in which she begged to 
send him, in the name of her " august sovereign," the accompanying 
giojello for his wife, in memory of her visit to the studio. The jewel 
is a medallion of dark blue enamel, with M, the Queen's initial, in dia- 
monds with a royal crown above it. On the reverse are the arms of 
Savoy, the red cross on the white field, the whole surrounded by a hoop 



At Night. A Lark 839 

of diamonds hanging from a bar of diamonds, set as a brooch, and 
very elegant. 

J. says that we cannot afford to stay in the Borgo if we remain in 
Rome; we must move to a new quarter. Ever since the Queen's visit, 
the Gobbo, our favorite cabby, has called him Signor Marchese, and 
expects a larger mancia than he can afford to give. 



S 



AT NIGHT 

BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE 

OMETIMES when Dark had spread for me her robe of rest, 
And Silence guarded by ; 

The night-bird, Sleep, would startle from her nest, 
Stirred by the baby's cry. 



When night is deepest now, again and yet again, 

I lie with wide eyes wet, 
It was his little cry which waked me then; 

His silence wakes me yet. 



A LARK 

(SALISBURY, ENGLAND) 
BY LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE 

A CLOSE gray sky, 
And poplars gray and high, 
The country-side along ; 
The steeple bold 
Across the acres old 
And then a song ! 

Oh, far, far, far, 
As any spire or star, 

Beyond the cloistered wall ! 
Oh, high, high, high, 
A heart-throb in the sky 

Then not at all ! 



"HELP WANTED: FEMALES" 

By Alden March 
* 

B110WN reached his office that morning in bad humor. 
It was aggravated by the recollection that his stenographer 
had left him the day before one who had been his right hand 
for years. 

" Two ladies waiting, sir," said Perkins, the office-boy. 

"What do they want?" this abruptly. 

" One came in answer to your ' ad/ for a stenographer. The other 
did too, I guess. She didn't say/' 

"Well, send one of them in. I'll have to choose somebody/' 
growled Brown. 

Usually this young head of the well-known house of Brown & Com- 
pany was the most equable of men. It was that very quality that 
helped him to the place he had won in the business world. 

But the loss of his stenographer was a sore trial to him. She was 
about to be married, or something equally selfish, and he was con- 
fronted by the necessity of getting another. 

He looked up as the door opened, and his glance fell on a young 
woman, who bowed slightly. Even Brown, who was so busy making 
money that he paid little attention to society and less to women, no- 
ticed how pretty she was. 

"I came," she began hesitatingly. 

" Yes," interrupted he briskly. " If you will sit in that chair I will 
try you." 

He began opening a pile of letters as he spoke. The young woman 
looked at him, undecided for a moment, then took the seat indicated. 

" I hope you take dictation rapidly," said he, without looking up. 
"I'm a fast talker and need a rapid stenographer." 

He happened to glance up at this juncture, and, seeing her looking 
at him dubiously, said, 

" Hadn't you better remove your gloves ?" 

She removed them deliberately, and noting the stenographer's book 
and pencil on the ledge of the desk, picked them up. Without further 
comment Brown plunged into his correspondence. Letter after letter 
was answered before he finally observed: 

"That will do for awhile. Kindly run them off on the machine 
over there." 

340 



"Help Wanted: Females" 341 

With that Mr. Brown buried himself in things that neither interest 
nor concern the reader. 

The young woman went to the typewriter with easy confidence, and 
in a short while placed the letters on Mr. Brown's desk. 

He g]anced over them rapidly one soon associated rapidity with 
Brown. His experienced eye told him that here was a secretary of no 
mean order. His less experienced eye from another view-point told 
him with equal positiveness that the woman before him was of a higher 
grade than most of those whom he had associated with such positions. 

" By George," he said to himself, " they tell me I'm brimful of 
luck. I believe it. Think of filling Miss Smith's place at the first 
shot." 

What he said aloud was more businesslike. 

" That seems to be all right. When you get used to my dictation I 
have no doubt we shall get along faster. You'll find a place over there 

for your hat. Then we'll try a few more letters Miss Miss " he 

looked for help. 

" Williams Elizabeth Williams." 

Her voice pleased him greatly. It was low and sweet, and there was 
something about it that spoke of culture. 

The mass of mail soon disappeared. When Brown was at a loss 
for a word, he caught himself glancing at her book, where he saw her 
write out in long-hand just the word he wanted. The oddness of 
the trick took his fancy. He would have resented a spoken suggestion. 
As it was, he came to look for this silent aid from this silent stenogra- 
pher, and it was never wanting. 

Brown was surprised at the reluctance with which he told Miss 
Williams that there would be nothing more. 

He informed her that the position was hers, and he would expect 
her to-morrow at eight. 

She thanked him, with an odd little smile in her eyes. 

He had forgotten all about the other applicant for the place, and 
found her still patiently waiting. 

What a contrast she was to Miss Williams, he said to himself as 
he bowed her out. 

The first thing that Brown thought of the next morning was the 
new secretary. He looked at his watch and said half aloud, 

" I'll be there promptly, so we'll start off well." 

He was a trifle ahead of time, and was disappointed at not seeing 
her there before him. "Well," he said to the clock, "she has ten 
minutes to spare. I hope she won't be late. That would be too dis- 
appointing, when she promises so well." 

He picked up his mail, sorting out the personal letters and plac- 



842 "Help Wanted: Females" 

ing them at one side. They always had to wait. The clock was very 
slow that morning. It took it a long while to reach eight. 

Brown found himself watching the door eagerly. 

Eight, two minutes after, five minutes past, ten, fifteen, but no 
Miss Williams. 

Brown's feelings were hard to analyze. Annoyance was para- 
mount, but back of that something else something intangible. 

At nine o'clock Brown grew peevish. She might have let him 
know if she were ill or could not come. Perhaps she would turn up 
later ; at any rate, he must go through his mail. 

One of the letters he had put aside as personal caught his eye. The 
envelope was the faintest lavender, and from it came a delicate perfume 
that somehow reminded him of Miss Williams. 

" How stupid of me," said he. " That will explain/' It was short. 

" MY DEAR ME. BROWN : I regret that I am unable to 
accept your kind offer of a position as your secretary for cer- 
tain reasons which would not interest you. 

" I thank you for your courtesy and the compliment 
implied in offering me the place. Very sincerely yours, 

" ELIZABETH WILLIAMS." 

It was surprising to Brown how difficult it was to find a suitable 
stenographer. Heretofore all applicants had been measured by the 
standard of Miss Smith. Now, Brown found himself comparing them 
with Miss Williams. They all fell short. Days passed, and still 
Brown remained without a secretary. Things which had always run 
like clock-work began going badly, and Brown, usually a brisk busi- 
ness man, with his face glued to his desk, had periods of abstraction, 
during which he gazed at the vacant stenographer's chair. 

He caught himself wondering what impelled Miss Williams to 
decline the position. He searched her letter for an address to write 
and ask her, but, either purposely or by accident, it had been omitted. 

The upshot of it all was that Brown's doctor had a talk with 
Brown's sister, and she impressed upon Brown the necessity of taking 
a rest. 

For once this dictatorial young man yielded to dictation. He de- 
cided to go to the Pocono Mountains. He wondered why he chose 
that spot, until he remembered that in writing a letter to someone 
at Mt. Pocono Miss Williams had shown intimate knowledge of the 
place. Perhaps she often went there. 

The bracing air of the mountains soon did its work, though even 
there Brown found himself restless, unsatisfied. 

One afternoon while aimlessly wandering down the beautiful 
" Rhododendron Walk " his eye caught a bit of pink through the mass 
of flowers and bushes lining the bank of the crisp, dashing brook that 



"Help Wanted: Females" 343 

works its way along the base of the hill. Just there it widened to a 
pool that was almost a lake, and out in the middle of this pool was a 
boat, a lazy, good-for-nothing, picturesque old punt, partly filled with 
water. 

On the dry end, cuddled up in sweet contentment, was a girl in 
pink ignorant of the pretty picture she made; equally ignorant of 
the eyes that drank it in. 

Somehow his heart puzzled Brown as he looked. It beat rapidly, 
sending the good red blood of the man through his veins with a ting- 
ling that amazed him. 

The vision in pink turned and found herself gazing into the eyes 
of Brown, of Brown & Company. She looked startled for a moment, 
as one does whose thoughts are uttered aloud by another. Then her 
eyes snapped with mirth. Brown smiled, so there was nothing for the 
vision to do but smile also and bow most cordially. 

It was the recent stenographer. 

" Haven't you an explanation to make to me ?" said Brown. It was 
an odd way to begin, but it didn't seem so to him. He began where 
they left off. 

" Have I ? About what ?" was Miss Williams's reply. 

" Are you accustomed to apply for positions one day and give them 
up the next without reason?" 

" I was under the impression I wrote you my reason." 

" Well, that is a mistake. I presume you really had some reason ?" 

" Oh, yes, of course." 

" Does it still bind you ? Because if it doesn't " 

" Yes, I'm very sorry, but it does." Then, as if to change .the 
subject, " Are you taking a rest up here ? You are not ill, I hope ?" 

Brown liked to think there was solicitude in the question. 

"When you deserted me" this with a smile "things went at 
sixes and sevens and I went with them, and so here I am, a wreck, and 
all on account of you. Do you feel the slightest pang of remorse?" 

" Not the least. I decline to be a party to your downfall. Me," 
with a merry laugh, " your stenographer of an hour ! Why, even your 
cashier couldn't wreck you so quickly as that." 

The punt was turned towards shore and a paddle or two brought 
it near where the gnarled roots of a tree formed a natural wharf. 

Brown clambered down to offer his aid, and for a moment, as she 
waited for a chance to spring, her hand was in his. He pushed the 
boat off subtly with his foot, simply to hold her hand a moment longer. 

Together they strolled down the Rhododendron Walk. The ex- 
quisite beauty of the half-wild, half-artificial path through the woods 
made them silent. But when they struck the long road over the 



344 "Help Wanted: Females" 

mountain their tongues were loosed and they chaffed each other, the 
unreliability of woman being the keynote of it all. 

As they walked they heard a call. It was from a friend of Miss 
Williams searching for her. Before she came up, Brown hastily ex- 
pressed the hope that they might meet the next day down by the 
.Khododendron Walk. 

Those tantalizing eyes danced again, but there was no reply. 

The next day she wasn't there, nor the day after. Brown searched 
the hotel registers, but could find no trace of Miss Elizabeth Williams. 
He began to suspect she had disappeared again, and blamed himself 
for letting her get away without learning her address. Why did he 
want it? She had declined his secretaryship twice. 

The question never occurred to him. Doubtless if it had he would 
have answered it satisfactorily. As it was, he spent his time trying 
to solve a much more important problem : " Where is Miss Williams ?" 

Finally, when he had almost given up, he met her face to face. 
She smiled and would have passed on, but Brown asserted himself. 

" Where have you been ?" he said abruptly. 

That puzzling twinkle again. " Am I late ? Have you had to an- 
swer your mail yourself ? I'm sorry." 

"If you really are sorry," said Brown, "you can settle all my 
troubles immediately." 

" Is your secretary expected to do that ? Gracious, what a narrow 
escape I had. I wouldn't have held the position a week." 

" I'm sure you wouldn't," replied Brown emphatically. 

Apparently the promptness with which he agreed with her did not 
please Miss Williams. Her chin took an aggressive tilt that delighted 
Brown. 

" How lucky it is we discovered it in time," she said. Then with a 
shrug, " But I must confess I don't see anything very difficult about 
answering a few letters a day." 

"No?" 

" Isn't that all your secretary has to do ?" 

" Practically." 

" Yet you believe I wouldn't have suited." 

" What I said was that you wouldn't have held your position for a 
week." 

" In other words, I'd be discharged promptly." 

" Or promoted/' put in Brown. 

" Mere subterfuge. Promoted to what, pray ?" 

" To be my partner," was the reply. 

" How absurd," she began lightly. Then, meeting his steady look, 
stopped. " How absurd," she repeated lamely. 

"Is it?" 



"Help Wanted: Females" 345 

She recovered quickly. " Of course. Who ever heard of a stenog- 
rapher becoming a partner in a business of which she knows nothing, 
and in a week too" 

" I wasn't thinking of a business partnership," said he quietly. " I 
meant a partnership for life, for better or for worse. Is that absurd 
too?" 

She did not reply for a moment. " Wouldn't the world say it was ?" 
she said at last. 

He answered quickly : 

" I don't care what anyone says, except you. As for the world, 
it will say, probably, ( That's Brown's usual luck/ It will love you at 
first sight, as I did." 

She smiled at him, but there was no mockery in that smile now, 
and with it came a look that set his heart beating faster. She started 
to speak then hesitated. 

" Tell me," he half commanded, though he spoke so low it seemed 
like an appeal, " is it too absurd to hope " 

" Ah, here you are," broke in a hearty voice. 

A gray-haired, cheery-looking man of fifty came up, shaking a 
reproachful cane at Miss Williams. 

" And Brown too ! What are you doing up here ? Glad to see you." 

They shook hands warmly, and Brown turned and looked at his 
former stenographer. She declined to meet his eye. The newcomer fol- 
lowed his look. 

"I didn't know you knew my daughter, Brown?" 

The daughter answered for him hastily, 

" Oh, Mr. Brown and I are old friends." 

" I'm glad to hear that. Then perhaps we may see something of 
you, Brown. Come over to dinner to-night, will you? I'll have to 
take Bessie with me now. She's my confidential secretary and man- 
ages my affairs. I have some especially important things that must 
be done right away. May we expect you to-night ?" 

The confidential secretary held out her hand with a smile. " Do 
come," she said. 

"With pleasure," said Brown. 

"That's good," replied Mr. Williams. "You know our house? 
the first beyond the little church." 

Brown mentally recalled the palace tucked away on the hillside 
and said, 

" I know it very well." 

" Then we'll expect you at six. Good-by." 

He stood watching them for a moment. " So she's been making 
fun of me. My stenographer !" He laughed sarcastically as he thought 
of it. " And her father the richest banker in the State. So that's the 



346 "Help Wanted: Females" 

famous Bessie Williams the newspapers are always raving about. Odd 
I never thought of it before. I wonder how she ever came to reply to 
my advertisement for a secretary. It beats me," with which confes- 
sion he walked on. 

It was a remarkably enjoyable dinner that evening. Mr. Williams 
was in jovial mood, Brown appeared to advantage, and the young 
secretary sparkled. 

Later, Brown found himself alone with her on the big piazza that 
overlooked the sleeping valley below. 

"Why did you play such a trick on me?" asked he abruptly. He 
always went at the root of matters immediately. 

" I didn't play any trick on you/' but her eyes were laughing, 
"you played it on yourself." 
"I did?" 

" Of course. I came to your office with a nice letter of introduc- 
tion to get you interested in my Children's House in the slums. I 
knew you had helped other charities, so I determined to interest you in 
mine." 

"But why didn't " 

"Because you wouldn't let me." She laughed at the recollection. 
" I never was so surprised in my life. I didn't even have presence of 
mind enough to rebel. You ordered yes, that's the word ordered me 
to sit down and take off my gloves and take up my pencil and hang up 
my hat, and glowered so I was frightened 

" What a fool you must think me," was all Brown replied. 
" How I did have to work," the tormentor went on. " It makes 
me shudder to think of it. Are you always such a taskmaster?" 

" Eeally, I don't know what to say. But you should have told me 

my mistake and not let me make such a " 

" It wasn't quite fair, I admit, but, to tell the truth, I wanted to 
see if I could do it, and I hoped after you found out the joke you'd 
help my charity." 

He did not reply for a moment. Then he said, 
" I suppose you didn't count on the fact that you would upset my 
office, upset my work, and, what is far more serious, upset my whole 
life." 

He paused, and she made no reply. 

" I'll never find another secretary that will answer. Where did 
you learn it?" 

" Father relies on me for the work he dislikes to trust to others, so 
I learned stenography to get his instructions accurately. Did I really 
do well?" 

She was laughing again, but grew serious as she saw his face. 
"So well," he said gravely, "that I shall never be happy again. 
You see, I read the papers and know of your engagement to marry." 



The Forest 347 

" It isn't true/' she replied quickly. " I have never thought of 
marrying at least - " 

It was her turn to hesitate. 

"At least what?" 

" At least at least not until a few hours ago." 

It was the manner of saying rather than the words that made 
Brown's heart beat rapidly. 

" You mean you mean - " he began. 

" I mean that I am glad you told me what you did this afternoon 
when you thought I was a stenographer." 

And what he said and what they did is their affair, but, like a true 
financier's daughter, she insisted on one condition before agreeing to 
the partnership. 

" What is it?" he asked eagerly. 

" That subscription for my pet charity. I've quite set my heart on 
one from you." 



THE FOREST 

BY KATHARINE G. TERRY 

HEEE in the languorous silence, where sunlight with shade inter- 
laces, 
Let my soul steep ; 
And from the well-springs of beauty, which time neither mars nor 

effaces, 
Let me drink deep ! 

Far from the riotous throbbing of busy humanity bustling, 

Here is a balm ; 
Only a marvellous bird-song, or music of glad leaves low rustling, 

Breaks the sweet calm. 

Oh! to be friends with the lichens, the low creeping vines, and the 
mosses, 

There close to lie; 
Gazing aloft at each pine-pi ame that airily, playfully tosses 

'Neath the blue sky. 

Oh ! to be near to the beauty, and infinite grandeur of all things 

Simple and free ; 

Held by the magic that ages have wrought in the great, and the small 
things, 

For you and me. 



AT THE SIGN OF THE 
WAXEN WOMAN 

By Clinton Dangerfield 



THE firelight gleamed redly on my spurs as I sat, sulkily enough, 
by the inn fire. 
Boniface, fat and smooth, like all his tribe, leaned on the 
settle opposite and seemed to find amusement in my vexation. 

" And so, Sir Charles," he grinned, " you must needs be married ere 
the year's out, or lose the handsome fortune bequeathed you on those 
conditions. And why do you stick so hardly at marriage, Sir Charles ?" 

" Because, you fool, I've never seen the woman I wanted for a 
wife," I said sharply. 

" Yet there be pretty women enow," observed Boniface ponderously. 

" My wife will be more than pretty," I retorted, gazing into the 
hearth. " She will have a charm, a subtle something, which shall ap- 
peal to me indescribably and make her different from anyone else, other- 
wise I'd as lief marry with that waxen woman of yours whom you keep 
in state in the corner yonder. She, at least, would give me no trouble." 

Boniface smote his hip at my words, as though they inspired him. 

" Sir Charles," he piped, " I've a way out of this mess for you. You 
shall keep your money and shall have the meekest of wives, for you shall 
wed with my waxen woman yonder !" 

"What the devil do you mean?" I ejaculated, sitting upright and 
dropping my mantle from around me. 

" I mean what I say," returned Boniface, rubbing his hands to- 
gether, the palms passing greasily over each other from long practice 
in the trick. " Witnesses will I get in plenty at the nearest pot-house. 
Your uncle said not what manner of woman and when you weary 
of her 'tis but a few cracks with a poker, and she will crumble into 
the original wax. Oh, 'tis a brave scheme ! You shall have her for an 
hundred pounds, Sir Charles." 

" Zooks !" I cried, " a most felicitous idea. Money and freedom 
both ! But can I trust the men ?" 

" Never fear ! I will pick my fellows carefully. And if they ever 
threaten to split 'tis but throwing away a guinea or two more to pre- 
serve a goodly fortune. Your Lordship will have a more complacent 
bride than the Earl of Woodford had yesterday." 

348 



At the Sign of the Waxen Woman 349 

" You mean the Countess Eleanor, who bolted before the ceremony ? 
Little blame to her; he's but a detestable old skeleton, a withered 
roue." 

"'Tis said her father forced her consent/' returned Boniface, who 
loved gossip beyond words. " There's a great reward out for her, and 
men searching everywhere. Would it were my luck to catch her for 
him !" 

" He's unfit for any decent woman's husband," I said in disgust. 
" But come, give me clothes for your great doll. Time passes, and you 
have the witnesses to get." 

Boniface brought out some finery once belonging to a lady of qual- 
ity who had died at the inn, which Boniface was keeping for his little 
wench Margery, a child now of twelve. 

As soon as the landlord disappeared I went to work, and soon had 
the great doll standing in a new corner of the room, robed and veiled 
in her wedding-clothes veiled, indeed, so thickly that, save for the 
outlines of her well-modelled figure, little was observable of her true 
self in the vague splendor. 

Scarce had I finished my task, scarce had I slipped a black cloth 
covering over the deserted cage, a common method practised by Boni- 
face when the figure needed retouching, when open flew the door and 
in hurried a lad of seventeen or thereabouts. 

Master Malapert shot the bolt, much to my vexation, for I wanted 
no company. 

" You intrude, sir," I said fiercely. " Do you not see that this room 
is taken by myself and this lady?" 

His answer was to crush his slender hands against his chest, as 
though he were a mere girl, and then he flung himself at my feet. 

" Oh sir," he gasped, " I have heard of you outside. Men say you 
are honorable. If it is true, pity and help one who has no friends in 
this wide, hideous world." 

" Do you want money ?" I said, frowning, yet strangely taken by his 
sweet contralto tones. 

" Not money, Sir Charles. I might have had coffers of money 
had I so chosen. But I fled, leaving all behind me." 

" The devil ! Have you killed someone ?" 

He sprang up. As he did so I noted, with a sudden vague sus- 
picion, the swelling contour of his chest, the roundness of his neck, the 
beauty of his hands. 

" I've killed no one yet," he declared wildly. " But you are right. 
I have still that refuge for myself. There's still an honorable chance 
of escape, though I face an angry God afterwards." 

"Suicide yon think that honorable, do you? Come, come, my 



350 At the Sign of the Waxen Woman 

frantic stripling, let me see your face. Nay, no struggles. Off goes 
your hat, and off your muffler. What's this?" 

For the frightened and flushing face looking in terror into mine 
was that of an exquisitely beautiful woman, whose great eyes filled with 
tears. 

" Ah, me," she stammered. " How like all other men you are 
cruel unkind " 

" Madam," I cried, " ten thousand pardons !" Then my remem- 
brance of Boniface's gossip came to my aid. " And you are the runa- 
way Countess," 1 said eagerly. " Small wonder the Earl was furious 
over your leaving him." 

" And you will betray me," she said slowly, her marvellous sweet 
voice shot through with leaden despair. " You will claim the reward !" 

"Am I a hound," I asked angrily, "that you should insult me so? 
My poor girl, 1 honor you. But this is no place for you, your groom 
may be on your heels." 

She wrung her hands. 

" Men are searching for me already in the lower part of this vil- 
lage. Oh, I am lost lost !" 

As I looked on her wonderful face, filled with a charm which no 
other woman had ever borne for me, a daring idea flashed through my 
mind. 

" Countess," I said eagerly, " I was about to do a mad thing to- 
night. You can make it a sane one. I was to wed a woman of wax. I 
will take one of flesh and blood, if you will stand in the great doll's 
place. Nay, look not on me in such affright. Plain am I, but of clean 
life and able to maintain your honor with my sword. Nor saw I ever 
a woman whose favor I liked as I do yours. Search my eyes with those 
clear orbs of yours and read my soul. You will find only pure inten- 
tions there." 

Search my soul she did, with that anxious yet piercing gaze of 
hers. What she found there seemed not amiss, for she suddenly 
dropped her head, her cheeks flushing scarlet, and murmured that I 
would think her too bold. 

I took her hand. " Nay, sweet," I said. "And be sure, dear heart, 
I will teach thee to love me." 

When Boniface returned his waxen woman, had he but known it, 
was back in her cage. In the shadowed corner, only faintly touched by 
the firelight, stood another figure, its very duplicate in height and 
roundness, robed in the waxen woman's brief wedding finery and heav- 
ily veiled. 

Boniface slid in smiling. Close on his tread came a villainously 
familiar form. 

" 1 have here a witness of witnesses," said the innkeeper, flourishing 



At the Sign of the Waxen Woman 351 

his hand, " none other than the Earl himself, Sir Charles. He was 
here on a search for his bride, overheard me telling your tale to the 
priest, and declared that he and his valet should suffice." 

" Gad's life yes," returned the Earl, bowing, his lean, shrunken 
stature trying to assume the pose of a young gallant. " Nought has 
amused me so in years as this idea of thine." 

" Let us hope it may continue to amuse you," I said slowly. " And 
you, reverend sir, kindly begin at once. Boniface, have up Margery to 
make the responses for my wife, who seems somewhat dumb." 

They all grinned as at an excellent joke, while my poor waxen 
woman stood there bravely. If she swayed a very little the kindly 
shadows hid it. 

Margery seemingly made the responses, but I, standing with my 
s\veet changeling's hand in mine, knew that her voice, in whispers, 
mingled with Margery's. 

It was over. The Earl broke into a sharp fit of shrill laughter. 

" Zooks, Sir Charles, you have strange taste in women ! I'd rather 
risk a spoilt gypsy like the bride I am hunting than to rest content 
with so cold a piece as yours !" 

" Were my wife other than she is," I answered, " she were not for 
me, and the day may come, my Lord, when you will approve my 
taste." 

The stubby priest closed his book with a snap. 

" You are a wise man, Sir Charles," he said flippantly, " for you 
may hawk at what game you will, and your hooded falcon there will 
never use her talons on you." 

I drew out my purse, impatient to pay him and have him begone. 
Then my gentle " waxen woman," exhausted with the pose she had 
been forced to keep, grew faint, and stumbling forward would have 
fallen, but that I caught her in my arms. 

" Let me sit down," she gasped, " I can bear no more." 

At the sound of her voice Boniface went white with terror. 

" A miracle of the devil !" he groaned. But the Earl was not super- 
stitious. 

Before I could stay him he had caught away the waxen woman's 
veil and. to judge by his howl of rage, what he found beneath did not 
please him. 

" Eleanor shameless minx !" he foamed. " Gad's my life, you shall 
pay for this this mock marriage !" 

" No mock marriage, but a most substantial one," I answered, 
thrusting him away. " This lady is my lawful wife, doubly wedded be- 
cause the responses were made twice over, by herself and little Margery 
in chorus." 

The Earl lacked not for courage. 



352 The Fox-People 

" It is no marriage !" he squeaked. " Speak, priest !" 

I thrust ten guineas into the priest's hand, whispering that I 
would double that. 

" 'Tis indeed a true marriage/' he averred boldly to the Earl. " They 
are hard and fast, my Lord hard and fast I" 

Out flashed the old Earl's sword, but I sent it spinning by a blow 
from mine in its sheath. 

" Go home," I said scornfully, " and tell your friend who would 
have sold his daughter that she hath exercised a woman's most sacred 
right the right of choice." 

Foaming, but impotent to harm us, the Earl stumbled from the 
room. The valet and Boniface followed. 

When the door closed behind them I knelt beside my wife and 
kissed her hand ; but as I gazed into her face I met no semblance of a 
waxen masque. Bather I looked into eyes where new-born love and 
trust flashed out, to make her mine forever. 



THE FOX-PEOPLE 

(A JAPANESE SUPERSTITION) 
BY ELSIE CASSIEN KING 

FAINT lights creep out amid the bamboo wilds, 
Wavering and flickering with an eerie grace 
And strange contortions. 

From our heart goes forth 
The prayer : 

" Shaka, save us from the fear 
That we may lose our souls, for drawing close 
Are the Fox-People : 

They who steal the breath, 
The mind, the life, to shape to their own sin !" 
And as we pray a forest mist steals up, 
Shutting from view the treacherous sparks, and all 
The Eastern night is fair and still again. 




THE REGENERATION 
OF ISAIAH 

By Ella Middleton Tybout 

Author of "Ananias of Poketown" etc. 



ISAIAH BRISTOW sat upon the edge of the pigpen and curled 
his bare toes reflectively. It was scarcely the spot one would have 
selected as a resting-place, when the whole landscape glowed with 
the mellow light of autumn and even Poketown was idealized by the 
scarlet and gold of the maples which bordered its long, straggling 
street on either side. Isaiah, however, bent his interested gaze into 
the depth of the pen and turned an unappreciative back towards the 
beauties of nature. 

" Dem hawgs," he muttered unctuously, " am jes' p'intedly fat tuh 
bustin'." 

Isaiah stretched one leg as far as it would reach and rubbed the 
back of the nearest pig with his foot. It grunted appreciatively. 

"'Tain' gwine tuh be long now/' he apostrophized, "twell yo's 
done salted down intuh spaiah ribs an' bacon. I's gwine tuh blow 
up yo' bladdah too, an' bus' it Chris'mus mawnin'. Y-a-a-s, suh. 
Sho's yo' bawn, I's gwine tuh do dat. Yo' done got tuh pay me 
somehow fuh all de vittles I's tuck an' tote tuh yo' dis long time." 

The pigs snuffed hungrily at their trough. It was quite empty, 
and Isaiah looked about for means to replenish it ; he liked a generous 
streak of fat in his bacon. 

"UncP Willum Staffo'd done say dat brown sugah an' brandy 
make a mighty sweet ham," soliloquized Isaiah as he started for the 
kitchen. 

In Mrs. Bristow's parlor a solemn conclave was assembled. Brother 
Kinnard Brice had been speaking, and his right hand was extended, 
as though in the pulpit. 

" No, Brothah," said Mrs. Bristow meekly, in evident response to 
an interrogation, "Isaiah he ain' got no daddy at de presen' time, 
so fuh ez I knows." 

" Splain yo'se'f, woman, splain yo'se'f," admonished Brother Brice 
severely. 

VOL. LXXIV. 12 353 



354 The Regeneration of Isaiah 

"De time done run out," said Mrs. Bristow quietly. "I tuck an* 
got tied up tub Ike Bristow befo' de squiah, an' dat on'y las' five yeah; 
yo' knows dat, Brothah Brice." 

" Yaas, dat's so," asserted Aunt Martha Young and Aunt Janty 
Gibbs simultaneously. 

"Yo' am spected tub go on at de eend o' de time ef yo' likes yo' 
man," said Mr. Brice suggestively. 

"Laws," returned Mrs. Bristow impatiently, "Fs pow'ful glad 
tub git shed o' Ike so easy. He tuck an' run off tub Noo Jahsey so's 
he could shake de free laig ag'in long befo' de time run out. A mighty 
triflin', ornery, no-count niggah, fo' sho'." 

" Isaiah do grow mo' like he daddy ev*ry day," remarked Aunt 
Martha Young pleasantly. 

Mrs. Bristow cast an apprehensive glance about the room. 

" Brothah Brice," she whispered anxiously, " whut de mattah wid 
dat boy, anyhow ?" 

Brother Brice, being at a loss for an appropriate reply, merely 
shut his eyes and wagged his head solemnly from side to side, and 
Mrs. Bristow resumed her complaint. 

" Dey ain' no livin' wid him," she continued, almost tearfully. 
" He puts 'baccy in de teapot an' salt in de sugah ; he ties de tails 
o' de cats togethah an' hangs 'em on de clo'es-line; he done put red 
peppah on de stove in de chu'ch las' Big Quahtahly twell de mo'nahs 
an' de zortahs all got tub sneezin' tub wunst; he ain' no morshial 
good 'bout de house, 'cept tub feed de pigs ; he " 

" Sistah Bristow," interrupted Mr. Brice suddenly, " de chile am 
p'sessed of a devil." 

" Mo' likely he'll be p'sessed 6y de devil," muttered Aunt Janty 
Gibbs sotto voce to Aunt Martha Young. 

" Y-a-a-s," reiterated Brother Brice convincingly as Mrs. Bristow's 
lower jaw drooped in astonishment, " hit am come tub me in a vision 
f'om de Lawd. De Evil Sperrits has done got dey grip on him." 

" Laws-a-mussy !" ejaculated the ladies in staccato chorus. 

" In days of ole," continued the pastor impressively, " de Evil 
Sperrits tuck an' entah dem app'inted fuh de puppose, an' wras'le in 
dey insides. Hit am jes' de same nowadays, meh sistahs. Y-a-a-s, 
Sistah Bristow, dey wras'le mos' outlandish." 

" Mussiful powahs !" exclaimed Aunt Janty Gibbs, folding her arms 
tightly, as though to protect her interior organs from unexpected 
assault. 

" Whuh do dey go in at when dey fus' entahs yo' body ?" inquired 
Aunt Martha Young with the evident practical intention of closing 
her portals. 

Brother Brice, looking very wise and virtuous, considered for a 
moment. 



The Regeneration of Isaiah 355 

"Dey's plenty o' little holes, Ann' Ma'thy, whut leads f'om de 
outside intuh yo' unknown cavities inside/' he returned loftily. " Look 
at yo' nostrils, Aun' Ma'thy, look at yo' nostrils." 

" Mighty tight squeeze fuh a sizable devil tuh git in dat a-way," 
observed Aunt Martha thoughtfully. 

" De big ones goes in by way o' de mouf," explained Mr. Brice 
lucidly, " an' de little ones takes de openin's of de yeahs an' de nose 
an' sich. Dem small Evil Sperrits am pow'ful active wunst dey 
gits in." 

"Isaiah suttinly got a scan'lous big mouf, an' he yeahs zembles 
de jackass," said his mother reflectively. "I don' seem tuh 'membah 
he nostrils nohow, but he nose am jes p'intedly flat tuh he face." 

"Do he scratch he nose frequent?" inquired Mr. Brice with a 
profound air. 

Mrs. Bristow distinctly recalled seeing her son so engaged several 
times recently. 

" Dat am 'caze de Evil Ones wuh gwine in," asserted the pastor 
with conviction ; " de mo' dey has tuh scrooge, de mo' dey tickles. 
I's fear'd, Sistah Bristow, Isaiah am clean beyond redimption. De 
Book done say, 'Dem whut am p'sessed of devils shell in no wise cas' 
'em out.'" 

Brother Brice sometimes got his quotations slightly mixed, but 
as there was no one to argue the point it did not" make very much 
difference. He now rose and prepared to take his leave, having stated 
his theory as to the degeneracy of Isaiah entirely to his own satisfaction. 

The question at issue was, however, a serious matter to Mrs. Bris- 
tow. Existence with Isaiah was troublous at the best of times, and she 
foresaw direful consequences if he should be pronounced under the 
spell of evil spirits and therefore irresponsible for his own actions; 
his mother believed that life in the same house with her son would 
not be worth living under those circumstances. Therefore when she 
saw her pastor preparing to depart without giving any practical demon- 
stration of his sympathy she placed her ample form in the doorway, 
thus barring the only egress. 

" Cas' 'em out, Brothah," she cried excitedly, " cas' 'em out !" 

Mr. Brice looked at her in amazement and endeavored to waive 
her aside that he might cross the threshold, but she steadfastly main- 
tained her position. 

" Yo's done been sanctified," she continued hurriedly, " yo's a 
holy man, Brothah Brice, yo' done say so yo'se'f. Cas' 'em out, I 
say. Cas' out dem devils whut's wras'lin' inside meh chile. Ef yo 
kain' cas' out a few 1'il devils, yo' ain' no preachah nohow." 

" Amen, dat's so," exclaimed Aunt Janty G-ibbs as though assisting 
at a church service. 



356 The Regeneration of Isaiah 

" Ef yo' kain' do hit," said Aunt Martha Young suspiciously, " why 
don' yo' up an' say so?" 

It was not a part of Brother Brice's creed to admit his inability 
to meet any requirement of a member of his flock; he therefore tem- 
porized weakly. 

" Ef yo's wunst been truly sanctified, Ann' Ma'thy," he said with 
quiet reproach, " yo' kin cas' out devils any time yo' chooses. De 
on'y reason I don' take an' exude 'em f'om dat sufferin' chile, Isaiah, 
am 'caze I dunno jes' whut tuh do wid 'em when I tuhns 'em loose 
on Poketown." 

" Cas' 'em out, Brothah, cas' 'em out !" wailed Mrs. Bristow, with 
a vivid realization of her difficulties. 

"Aun' Ma'thy," said Brother Brice solemnly, "is yo' willin' tuh 
take yo' chances wid 'em? 'Membah de wo'ds o' de Book. Dem 
devils jes' p'intedly got tuh entah intuh somebody when dey's cas' 
outen Isaiah." 

Now Aunt Martha herself was somewhat a student of scripture 
and occasionally surprised her pastor with the result of her research. 
She had been thinking deeply, and the fruit of her cogitations was 
expressed in a single word, evidently eminently satisfactory in its 
import. 

" Hawgs," she ejaculated briefly but expressively. 

"Whut yo' 'ludin' tuh, Aun' Ma'thy? whut yo' 'ludin' tuh?" said 
Mr. Brice doubtfully. 

" De Book do say," asserted Aunt Martha positively, " dat de devil 
done entah intuh pigs when hit wuh cas' outen a pusson, an' de pigs 
tuck an' drownded deyse'fs." 

" Yo's wrong, Aun' Ma'thy," contradicted Mr. Brice firmly, " de 
Book don' say nawthin' 'bout pigs. Hit mentions swine, howsomevah, 
but dey ain' no swine in dese days." 

" Hawgs am swine," said Aunt Martha quietly, and Brother Brice 
realized he could no longer shirk the task of casting out the devil from 
Mrs. Bristow's son and heir. 

Isaiah, meanwhile, had quietly visited the kitchen and abstracted 
a portion of the morning's marketing. His mother had invested in 
a quarter of a barrel of moist brown sugar, so he filled a bucket to 
overflowing with it and looked about for something more. A pail of 
milk was set to rise, and it appeared to him suitable for his purpose. 
Heavily weighted by a bucket in each hand, Isaiah returned to the 
pigpen. 

He was not, however, entirely satisfied with the result of his expedi- 
tion. The chief ingredient he desired was still lacking, and Isaiah 
rubbed his nose and reflected deeply; if Mr. Brice had been present, 
he might have remarked that the evil spirits seemed to tickle insistently. 



The Regeneration of Isaiah 357 

Suddenly a light broke upon the perplexed countenance of Isaiah, 
and he whistled shrilly as he placed his two pails in a secluded corner 
and started for the neighboring house on the double quick. 

Uncle William Stafford was startled by a series of imperative knocks 
upon his kitchen door and shuffled hastily across the room to open it. 
To him appeared Isaiah Bristow in a state of great mental agitation 
and panting heavily. 

" Oh Uncl' Willum," gasped Isaiah breathlessly, " Mammy done 
tuck pow'ful bad wid de mis'ry in huh stummick. She say kin yo' 
spaiah huh a sip o' gin or mebbe brandy? She jes' bent double, Uncl' 
Willum, po' Mammy. She done holler out loud wid de mis'ry 'caze 
hit grip huh so bad." 

Uncle William reluctantly produced a cup from his closet. 

" Eeckon I got tuh do hit," he said ungraciously as he left the 
room. Isaiah followed him on tiptoe and cautiously opened the door 
which his host had carefully closed behind him. An expansive grin 
adorned the countenance of the boy as he returned to the outer door- 
step. 

" He done keep he jimmy John in de woodpile," he chuckled, im- 
mediately resuming his former pensive attitude as Uncle William was 
heard returning. 

Strange to relate, Isaiah did not at once return to his suffering 
mother. He secreted himself instead behind the fence and watched 
Uncle William walk slowly down the street, then repaired to the wood- 
pile and triumphantly produced a half -gallon demijohn. It was nearly 
full, Uncle William having replenished his stock that very morning, 
and Isaiah again sought the pigpen, where he proceeded to mix a milk- 
punch of exceeding strength and sweetness and bestow it upon the two 
sober and well-conducted swine confined therein. They appeared to 
find it most palatable. 

Isaiah, absorbed in watching the milk-punch disappear, heard voices 
in the rear, and turning beheld his mother and her guests approaching. 
Retreat was manifestly impossible, so with much presence of mind 
he hastily turned a bucket over the empty demijohn and sat down 
upon it. 

" Isaiah," said Mrs. Bristow, sadly reproachful, " whut yo' doin' 
hyah ? I done tole yo' tuh pick up chips." 

" I jes' come tuh feed de pigs, Mammy," replied Isaiah innocently. 

" Brothah Brice," said Aunt Janty suddenly, " now am yo' chance. 
Hyah am de chile; hyah am de hawgs. Whut mo' does yo' ask?" 

" Git tuh wuck, Brothah, git tuh wuck," added Aunt Martha 
briskly. 

" Dem pigs," said Mr. Brice uneasily, " don' zemble de right breed 
tuh take in Evil Sperrits. Reckon de Bible swine b'longed tuh de 
razor-back fambly." 



358 The Regeneration of Isaiah 

" Whut de mattah wid de pigs ?" demanded Mrs. Bristow, bristling 
with wounded pride ; " dey's de bes' hawgs in Poketown dem two is." 

"Ef de devil entah intuh 'em," said Brother Brice, seeing a pos- 
sible avenue of escape from his unwelcome task, "yo' kain' eat de 
pork nohow, 'caze it pi'zen yo' twell yo's stone daid." 

" Hit do seem like a was'e o' good meat," said Aunt Janty regret- 
fully. 

Mrs. Bristow, however, was firm. She laid a detaining hand upon 
the shoulder of her son and announced her intention of sacrificing her 
winter bacon to insure his welfare. Isaiah squirmed uneasily; he felt 
apprehensive about the personal turn affairs seemed to be taking. 

" We's waitin' f uh yo', Brothah Brice," said Aunt Martha sug- 
gestively, and that gentleman at last rose to the occasion. Indeed, he 
rose in every sense of the word, for he mounted on top of the covered 
portion of the pen and demanded that Isaiah be hoisted up beside 
him. This was a work of considerable difficulty, for Isaiah hung back 
and protested strenuously; but Mr. Brice hauled with a will from 
above while his mother and Aunt Janty pushed vigorously from below, 
therefore he soon found himself trembling abjectly by the side of Mr. 
Brice, who placed a detaining hand upon his kinky little poll. 

" Git down on yo' knees," commanded the preacher, with a slight 
push, and Isaiah obediently knelt upon the uneven boards of the roof. 

The three women also fell upon their knees in front of the pen 
and piously crossed their arms upon their breasts. 

" Lawd," said Mr. Brice fervently, " gimme de magic wo'ds whut 
cas'es out devils; he'p me tuh put a new haht in dis hyah po' chile; 
make him diffunt f'om dis houah " 

" Amen, good Lawd, amen !" shouted Mrs. Bristow emphatically. 

" Ef dey's any Evil Sperrits in dis hyah boy," said Mr. Brice in the 
distinct tones in which one addresses a deaf person, " I commands 'em 
tuh come fo'th an' entah intuh dem pigs." 

He paused expectantly, but nothing happened. 

" Let yo' mouf hang open," he remarked to Isaiah, " so's de big 
devils kin git out easy." 

And Isaiah, comprehending nothing, but badly frightened, opened 
his mouth as wide as nature would permit. 

" Lawd," again entreated Mr. Brice, " don' leave me tuh git 
thu dis hyah job by mehse'f. 'Tain' no time fuh triflin', dis hyah am'. 
Dis chile am chuck full o' devils, good Lawd. Am yo' gwine tuh zert 
him in he houah o' need ?" 

" Dem hawgs gittin' mighty oneasy," said Aunt Janty fearfully. 

And, indeed, they were very restless. Uncle William's brandy made 
up in strength what it lacked in quality, and they felt strangely warm 
and exhilarated internally, as well as disposed to quarrel with one 
another and rebel at the narrow confines of their pen. 



The Regeneration of Isaiah 359 

Mr. Brice observed these symptoms complacently, and resumed his 
exhortations with even greater fervor. His right hand was clenched 
firmly in Isaiah's hair, and as he raised his arm heavenward at fre- 
quent intervals the effect was very painful to his victim, who struggled 
vainly for freedom. 

" Evil Sperrits, big an' little," began Mr. Brice, " git outen de 
body o' dis hyah chile by de same holes yo' come in. Hyah am de 
hawgs waitin' fuh yo'. Dey insides am jes' ez roomy an' jes' ez spacious 
ez his'n am. I tells yo' tuh git outen dis boy/' 

" Ouch !" wailed Isaiah, " leggo meh haiah." 

" Glory, glory, hallelujah I" shouted 'Mrs. Bristow, clapping violently 
as she swayed from side to side, " de hawgs has got 'em. Dey's got 
'em sho'. Glory!" 

" Praise de Lawd ! praise de Lawd !" chanted Aunt Janty and Aunt 
Martha in excited chorus. 

Inside the pen the pigs dashed wildly about, knocking against one 
another and making strange, guttural noises at frequent intervals, a 
much intoxicated pair. 

" Open de do' at de back o' de pen an' let 'em out," commanded Mr. 
Brice, and Aunt Janty flew to obey the mandate. 

" De Evil Sperrits am done cas' outen dis hyah 1'il lamb," said 
Brother Brice piously, raising his arm very high in thanksgiving; 
" he am meek an' lowly f 'om dis time f o'th ; he " 

"Leggo, I tells yo'," shrieked Isaiah, who had literally been lifted 
to his feet by the hair of his head ; " does yo' hyah me ? Leggo !" 

As Mr. Brice mechanically lowered his arm Isaiah seized the oppor- 
tunity to butt his pastor violently in the abdomen with his head, 
and they rolled off the roof together. 

It was at this moment Aunt Janty elected to open the door of the 
pen, and the pigs rushed out upon their prostrate bodies. For a mo- 
ment there was an indiscriminate mass of men and animals; then the 
pigs ran blindly down the street with Isaiah at their heels and Mr. 
Brice in hot pursuit. The three women brought up the rear, puffing 
like porpoises, but determined to be in at the end. The chase was 
brought to an abrupt termination by the canal, into which the pigs 
plunged, followed, without an instant's hesitation, by Isaiah; he 
would, indeed, have jumped into a fiery furnace rather than again 
submit to the clutches of Mr. Brice. 

Now, Uncle William Stafford, in common with the rest of Poke- 
town, had been an interested spectator of the race to the canal and 
had heard with astonishment Aunt Martha Young's account of the 
miracle just performed, that lady having been unable to keep up 
with the procession on account of structural solidity. Uncle William 
was especially surprised to see Mrs. Bristow risen from her bed of 
suffering and pounding along at no mean speed. He shook his gray 



360 The Regeneration of Isaiah 

head doubtfully as he entered his yard and repaired to the woodpile 
to refresh himself after his walk, according to custom. The refresh- 
ment, however, appeared to be lacking. 

" Dat one ornery, zumptious boy," muttered Uncle William angrily 
as he shuffled to the fence which divided the two yards. The protect- 
ing bucket had been overturned and the demijohn lay revealed to 
public gaze. 

Uncle William crossed the fence with some difficulty, owing to rheu- 
matism, and took possession of his property. He observed the empty 
milk-pail and the crumbs of brown sugar scattered upon the ground, 
also the vacant pigpen. Leaning against the latter he pondered deeply, 
occasionally shaking his head ominously and threatening vengeance on 
the absent. 

When Mrs. Bristow returned to her house in a highly hysterical 
condition and accompanied by Aunt Janty she found Uncle William 
awaiting her, grim and forbidding in aspect. 

" Dey's drownded/' she wailed shrilly, " meh Til chile an meh two 
pigs bofe daid. Laws-a-mussy ! Bofe daid an' gone. Oh, I's a mizza- 
ble sinnah. Sich big, fat hawgs dey wuz. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Isaiah's 
drownded. Oh, dear ! No bacon dis wintah. Lawd, ha' mercy." 

"Don' take on so, Sistah Bristow," said Uncle William coldly, 
" dey ain' no hope o' Isaiah's bein' drownded he gwine tuh live tub 
be hung yit." 

And lifting up his empty demijohn Uncle William expounded his 
theory. 

Some little distance down the tow-path a canal-boat landed a drip- 
ping, shivering boy and two weary, chastened pigs. The walk back 
was long and dreary and only accomplished after much trouble, for 
the pigs showed an irrepressible inclination to lie down and slumber. 
Isaiah, however, knew better than to appear at home without them; 
their presence, indeed, was his only chance of salvation. So he urged 
them onward by violently pulling their tails in the wrong direction 
whenever they paused to rest, which, as everybody knows, is the only 
proper way to drive a pig, and at last they limped into their yard, as 
abject a company as one could possibly imagine. 

Mrs. Bristow, sitting at her window in a state of great mental 
exhaustion, saw them approaching from afar off and considered her 
course of action carefully; she felt averse to further efforts to reform 
her son and much inclined to ignore the events of the afternoon 
entirely. 

"I done got de smartes' an' mos' ornery boy ez well ez de fattes', 
mos' scan'lous hawgs in Poketown, an' I reckon I jes' got tuh put up 
wid 'em," she murmured with a certain pride in her possessions as 
Isaiah cautiously unlatched the back gate. 



THE RELEASE 

By Ina Brevoort Roberts 

Author of "The Lifting of a Finger'' " The Pretenders" etc. 



CNGSTON had committed the "crime of crimes" he was late 
for dinner. His hostess greeted him cordially, if reproachfully. 
"I'm sorry/' he murmured as they shook hands. 

" So am I for your sake," returned she ; " I fear the punishment's 
going to fit the crime. I was going to give you a girl who is well, 
worth while, to take in to dinner, but you did not come, and just a few 
minutes ago Jack Smedley asked me as a special favor if he might take 
her in. There she is, by that cabinet the young woman in white." 

Langston looked and restrained the impulse to draw a long breath. 
Truly, she was beautiful. " Whom am I to have instead ?" he asked. 

"That pale little girl looking at photographs alone on the divan. 
I don't know her very well, br.t she's related to the Grigsons, who are 
staying with me. Her people have a cottage between here and the vil- 
lage. Miss Clark is hopelessly uninteresting, I fear; I could make 
nothing of her, but it's your own fault. Come, I'll introduce you," 
finished Mrs. Avery. 

Langston followed her and was presented to Miss Clark, the only 
solitary person in a roomful of groups and couples. Langston had 
always pitied women who were neglected because of a lack of beauty, so 
during dinner he made himself agreeable to his neighbor, whom Mrs. 
Avery had dubbed "uninteresting," using tact and skill in trying to 
draw her out. At the same time he was watching the girl in white, 
who sat on the opposite side of the table a little farther down. 

His efforts to draw Miss Clark out were unsuccessful; she was 
absolutely unresponsive, eating little, replying to his remarks indiffer- 
ently, and not even seeing his smiling glances. 

At first Langston put all this down to shyness, but he was soon un- 
deceived. The girl, when she did look up, met his gaze fearlessly. 

" There's nothing to her," he finally decided, and it was character- 
istic of him that he still endeavored to be entertaining. When dinner 
was over, however, he left her to be presented to the girl in white and 
did not approach her again. 

It was late when Langston started to go to his hotel. He had a short 
time before seen his companion at dinner leave under the escort of a 

361 



362 The Release 

young man who had been pressed into service by Mrs. Avery. The girl 
in white was staying in the house, 

Langston's walk lay through an old-fashioned village to which sum- 
mer visitors had begun to find the way, but which had not yet become 
a " popular resort." 

The air was warm and still and a young moon shone through the 
trees. The night was full of silvery, seductive beauty, and Langston 
was enjoying his walk when, from the grounds of a house that was set 
well back from the road, there came a sound, faint, but so unmistakable 
that he stopped to listen. Someone on that lawn was crying in a heart- 
broken fashion. 

Langston waited on the path. To try to find out who was crying, 
and why, seemed a preposterous thing to do, and yet he could not go 
on his way, so he simply stood still and listened. 

At last he could bear it no longer. Moving swiftly across the short 
grass, he entered the clump of bushes. 

In this miniature grove, seated on a rustic bench, was a woman. 
At his approach she raised her head, but before either of them could 
speak a tip of the crescent moon shot from behind a cloud and Langston 
recognized the girl he had taken in to dinner. 

Immediately he regretted his intrusion. " I beg your pardon," he 
began awkwardly, then stopped, not knowing what else to say. 

" You heard me crying from the road, is that it ?" she said simply. 
" Well, it's no wonder, I suppose. I got as far away from the house as 
I could, not thinking that anyone would be going by so late." 

" I was coming from Mrs. Avery's," Langston replied. " I'm sorry 
I fear I've blundered." 

Miss Clark looked at him with a smile that was worse than the 
sound of her crying had been. " Don't reproach yourself ; you were 
kind to come and I thank you," she said. "I am sorry you cannot 
help me." 

Of course, he could not help her; he might have realized that be- 
fore, Langston told himself impatiently. He had heard many people 
cry in his time and knew that such crying as hers had been comes only 
from a mortal heart-hurt. 

" Don't feel so sorry for me," said the girl gently. " You're a sym- 
pathetic person, aren't you? I noticed your persistent trying to make 
the best of a bad bargain at dinner, and I wanted to help you out by 
pretending to be responsive to your efforts, but I couldn't." 

" I am sorry my behavior seemed like that to you," Langston replied. 
"I'll go now," he added after a pause. "I can do nothing for you, 
and yet I can't bear to leave you like this." 

" Don't, I tell you, be too sorry for me. No, you can do nothing. 
My trouble is that the world has stopped going round; it is standing 



The Release 363 

still. You couldn't start it going again." The words held humor, 
her tone was indescribably sad. 

There shot through Langston's mind the refrain of a song, " Oh, it's 
love that makes the world go round." He felt a sickening sense of 
horror. 

" You are thinking right," he heard her say. " It's the old, piti- 
ful story. A man and I loved each other, and now he no longer cares." 
She buried her face in her hands and began to cry again, the sound of 
her sobs going to Langston's heart. 

He was conscious of a sense of unreality. The lovely, tender beauty 
of the moonlight night ; this girl crying her heart out for love's sake 
and telling him about it. Was he dreaming or not ? Why, twenty-four 
hours before they had been strangers. 

" It doesn't seem that it all can be true," Miss Clark was saying, 
" that everything has gone out of my life that made it life, and that 
I should be sitting here crying like any other lovesick fool and talking 
so to a stranger." 

" Well, we're not strangers now." Langston spoke with grave kind- 
ness, yet a second later he regretted his words, fearing that, misunder- 
standing, she might be hurt. 

But she did not misunderstand. "No, we're not strangers now," 
she assented. " And I'm not sorry I've told you." 

" I wish I could help you/' Langston told her, " but at least I can 
be wise enough not to try. Let me say this much, however. There is 
one help for you, and that is Time. Time heals all wounds. You 
don't believe that now, but it is true, nevertheless. Before I go, won't 
you let me see you start back to the house ?" 

She shook her head. "No," she said, "I cannot breathe indoors. 
You don't know there is a weight here." She pressed her hands to 
her breast. " Good-night, and thank you." 

" Good-night," replied Langston, and left her. 

" Poor little girl," he murmured to himself, " poor child." 

In the morning the adventure had lost some of its tragic aspect. 
While he was shaving Langston thought the matter over and decided 
that Miss Clark would soon be happy again. But it was a shame she 
had been made to suffer so. Still, without beauty or charm, what 
chance had she ? Then he looked out of the window, noting with satis- 
faction that the day was fine, and wondered if Miss Bently Miss 
Bently was the girl in white played a good game of tennis. Mrs. 
Avery had asked him the night before to bring his belongings from 
the hotel and make one of the house party. 

As the days went by the hostess had reason to congratulate herself 
on the success of this party. The weather was perfect, as only the 



364 The Release 

combination of cool breezes with a wealth of sunshine can make it, 
and her guests were proving that they had been well chosen. 

While he danced and rode or played golf or tennis with Miss Bently 
Langston kept a watchful eye upon Miss Clark, who spent much of her 
time at the Avery place. 

The fact of having her confidence had given him an interest in her. 
He was careful to make no demonstration of this feeling, knowing that 
any open kindness on his part she might construe into pity and resent, 
but he kept on the lookout for opportunities to help her. 

He could see she was making a resolute attempt to get the better 
of her despair. She had, as Mrs. Avery expressed it, " waked up a 
trifle," and no one, seeing the interest with which she entered into the 
occupation of each hour, would have dreamed of picking her out as a 
woman with an aching heart. More and more Langston came to ad- 
mire the girl's bravery, the splendid fight she was making. How des- 
perate her struggle was he knew by the occasional whitening of her face 
at some chance remark or, as on one occasion, at the singing of a love- 
song in Mrs. Avery's drawing-room after dinner. 

For some time after it took place their strange conversation was 
not referred to by either Langston or the girl, only, if they chanced to 
be alone together, she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was 
miserably unhappy. 

One afternoon he came upon her sitting on the bank of a river that 
ran through Mrs. Avery's grounds. She had a book in her lap which 
she appeared to be reading, but before Langston reached her he saw 
her close the volume with an air of being heart-weary of a struggle that 
was hopeless. 

He threw himself on the grass beside her and began to talk of the 
tennis tournament which had been arranged for the morrow. "You 
will win, I think," he said. " Miss Lascelles puts up a good game, but 
you are more than a match for her. Look out when she's serving, 
though ; she has a neat trick or two." 

Miss Clark smiled as she rose to her feet. Langston rose also. 

"We can't both win, but I'll do my best," she told him as they 
started back to the house. 

" That's the way to talk," Langston felt like saying. 

Tea was being served on the lawn. Langston found a chair for his 
companion and foraged for her refreshment. He was making his way 
back to her after a successful raid on the table set in the shade of a 
convenient oak when he saw her face grow gray and her hands tighten 
round the arms of her chair. For a moment he thought she was going 
to faint, but she recovered herself by an effort that made him thrill. 

" Of all diabolical situations," he said to himself as he handed her 
the tea he had brought. "I never thought of the man's being here." 



The Release 365 

For the cause of Miss Clark's pallor was a good-looking, well-made 
young fellow who had come round a corner of the house singing " The 
Armorer's Song " from " Kobin Hood " at the top of a voice that 
matched his splendid shoulders. 

That night Langston lay awake thinking of Miss Clark. At four 
o'clock he rose and dressed and made his way to the cottage in which 
she was staying. At the edge of the lawn he hesitated. " She's prob- 
ably in the house asleep/' he soliloquized, " but, hang it ! I can't help 
making sure." 

She was not in the house asleep; she was pacing the little grove 
with dry eyes and clinched hands. 

" Are you surprised to see me ?" Langston asked. 

" No," she answered ; " it was like you to come. But you ought 
to be asleep, having happy dreams." 

Langston smiled; he knew she was thinking of Miss Bently. "I 
would rather be here," he said. 

" You are kind. I've known you've been trying to help me. But no 
one can but God, and He doesn't seem to care. I've prayed and prayed, 
and no help comes to me. I had so much faith too. I've always be- 
lieved no burdens were laid upon us too great for us to bear." 

"You must go on praying," Langston told her gently, "and by 
and by happiness will come back to you." 

" It isn't happiness I pray for it's courage. It seems pitiful, does 
it not, that I should have to suffer like this? I sometimes wonder if 
it's not all a hideous dream; not that I should have lost a lover, but 
that I should care so. I've always despised the sort of women who 
could die for love. And now it seems sometimes as if I could not bear 
to go on living." 

"What!" exclaimed Langston in horror, "you would not " 

" No," she answered, with that smile of hers that was so sad ; " you 
need not worry. There are people who love me ; I must live for them. 
No, I shall not kill myself, and in the end I shall get over wanting to. 
I've got to fight this trouble hour by hour, minute by minute, and I 
will. I shall win too." Her voice rang with conviction. If I have to 
fight it all my life why, I will fight it all my life ; defeat means giving 
up. Now you must go and thank you." 

Langston looked at her a moment sadly. "Yes, I must go," he 
said. " You know I leave to-morrow, or, rather, to-day." 

" No, I didn't know." Her voice held regret. " I shall miss you. 
Where do you go from here?" 

" To England, on a business trip. When I get back, may I come to 
see you?" 

" Yes, come," she said, and added as she gave him her hand, " Good- 
by and good-luck/' 



366 The Release 

Langston pressed the hand in a friendly fashion. "I can't tell 
you how much I admire your courage," was what he said. " Good-by, 
and good-luck." 

Langston sailed the day after leaving Mrs. Averts, and six months 
elapsed before he was again in his own land. During his absence he 
heard no news of Miss Clark, but he thought of her often and won- 
dered if victory were yet hers. " To have gone away when I did was 
like leaving an interesting story half read," he told himself. 

His return brought the events of the previous summer so vividly 
to his mind that he went to see Miss Clark on the day following his 
arrival. 

" Eeally, the girl's worse than any book/' he reflected as he went up 
the steps of her home; "I can't get her out of my mind till I find 
out how her story has ended." 

As she entered the room into which he had been shown and came 
towards him, smiling, he saw at once a change in her which he found 
impossible to analyze further than that there was added alertness in 
her bearing, and in her eyes a quizzical gleam had replaced the sad 
expression that had once distressed him. 

" I'm very glad to see you," she said, giving him her hand. " When 
I read of your arrival in last nighf s paper I hoped you had not lorgot- 
ten your promise to come." 

Her greeting, as frank and unconstrained as though they had met 
the day before, brought to Langston a sense of relief. 

Although, conventionally speaking, he and Miss Clark were scarcely 
more than acquaintances, there was a bond between them, the result of 
their discussion of the deeper things of life. They were nothing to each 
other, yet they had stood soul to soul. Eemembering this, he had 
feared that the present meeting might be awkward. 

"You see, I came at once," he said when they were seated before 
the glowing fire that gave an air of comfort to the sombre room. " And 
now, will you tell me the news ?" 

" Do you mean about myself or the news the papers have been 
printing ?" 

" The former, of course," Langston replied. 

" Well, the news is good news for me, that is." 

" What is it ? Don't keep me in suspense." Langston's tone 
matched hers for gayety, and yet his feeling was rather of sadness; it 
seemed to him that the bond between them was about to be broken. 

" It is that I am free," Miss Clark said gently. " The world goes 
round once more : not very fast or very smoothly as yet, but still, it's 
moving." She smiled, and he smiled back understandingly. 

" That is good news," he said. " When did it all happen ?" 

" This morning. I had lain awake all night, as I used to last sum- 



The Release 367 

mer, but just before dawn I fell asleep. When I opened my eyes the 
sun was shining and I was free." 

Langston's smile suddenly faded. "You are sure that your free- 
dom will last, that it's not just a temporary reaction ?" He put the 
question timidly. 

" Yes, I am sure." Her tone was confident. " It must have come 
sometime; one couldn't go on praying for help and not get it." 

" I can't tell you how glad I am !" Langston exclaimed. " Did you 
win the tennis tournament?" he ended lamely. 

" No," she answered. 

" Then you lost on purpose. Don't tell me differently, for I sha'n't 
believe you." 

"You're very bold," she retorted. "Perhaps I didn't exactly try 
to win, but I made Miss Lascelles work to beat me. And the victory 
made her happy; to me, just then, it would have meant nothing." 

Langston looked at her without replying. 

"And you having lost the thing that meant happiness to you 
can still be happy," he said at last. 

" Yes. I suppose we all cherish at some time the delusion that 
happiness lies in some external thing," she told him. "At times we 
think that thing is pleasure, then we are sure it must be love, and final- 
ly, perhaps, we try to compromise on fame, or even, alas, on personal 
ease. But those to whom living is learning must come at last to realize 
that happness lies within and not without." 

A quiver shot through Langston's body and stopped at his heart 
After all, what need had she to envy any woman her beauty? 

" The victory you have gained was well worth fighting for," he said 
in a low tone. 

"Yes. The strength that comes through suffering is never too 
dearly bought. The part of it all that I can't understand is how I could 
have got over caring so suddenly. However, I must just be glad of the 
miracle, not stop to wonder at it. I feel as Christian must have when 
he lost his pack. It seems dreadful, does it not, that love should 
ever grow to be a burden ?" 

"We ought in some way to celebrate your victory," Langston said 
as he rose to go. 

" Hush !" Miss Clark looked at him with eyes in which shone mirth 
that made his heart leap. " A celebration should be a festival of joy, 
and one mustn't be glad too soon after a death, even if it is only the 
death of a useless love." 

After his departure Langston pondered the situation. " Good God ! 
she could be everything to a man," he muttered savagely, as if angry 
with himself. 

A few evenings later he met Miss Clark at a dance. She was look- 



368 The Release 

ing almost pretty in a frivolous white gown with her hair done a new 
way and her eyes shining like stars. 

He went to her at once. " I hope your recent bereavement will not 
prevent your giving me this waltz," he said. 

She looked up at him, the corners of her mouth set in droll curves. 

" No/' she replied, " not the bereavement, but the fact that I dance 
atrociously. You wouldn't enjoy the experience and neither would I, 
so why go through it ?" 

"Then will you help me to discover a quiet corner where we can 
talk ?" Langston requested. " I defy you to tell me that won't be an 
enjoyable experience for me." 

" You are kind to say so, since I've talked to you of little but my 
troubles," she said, laughing, as she rose and went with him. 

The dance having only just begun, they found an unoccupied divan 
in a secluded corner. 

As she sat down Miss Clark looked at Langston reflectively. 

" Do you remember that night when you found me crying ?" she 
queried. " And now it is possible to smile over what was so pitiful 
then!" 

" Does time, I wonder, turn all tragedies into comedies ?" Langston 
spoke, half to himself. 

"I think so. The joy of to-day may be ashes to-morrow, but the 
humiliation of the morrow will surely be the jest of the day after. Al- 
ways, in some way, the future justifies the past." 

The future! Langston started. Into his imagination there had 
leaped a gleaming vision. He conjured himself by his own fireside, in 
a home made and ordered by the girl at his side, with her heart to beat 
against his heart, her mind to mate with his mind, and their souls each 
helping the other in its lonely journey through darkness towards the 
light. 

He was recalled to the present by hearing a choking sigh. 

" What is it ?" he whispered. 

" Nothing ;" evidently she answered with difficulty ; " I was hav- 
ing strange thoughts, that is all." 

Langston drew back, chilled. Her reflections how far away might 
they not have led her ! 

But suddenly he leaned forward again. " Can it be possible ?" he 
began breathlessly, urged on by an impulse that seemed as mad as it 
was irresistible, " that you too have seen a vision of a home and in 
it you and me the vision of the miracle ?" 

The girl beside him drew her breath sharply. " And you saw the 
same thing ? Then it means " 

" That we love each other," Langston declared. 

Their hands met, and he heard her laugh softly as he leaned to- 



My Dearest 369 

wards her. " Don't yet/' she breathed. " You are sure you can love 
me after all I have been through? Most men, I know, desire to find 
the pages of a woman's heart-history quite blank." 

" Most women," Langston returned, " would have come through an 
experience like yours poorer in heart if not in character; you are 
richer in both." 



MY DEAREST 

BY ETHNA CARBERY 

SHE is my Dearest, and I take 
My burdens to her tender breast, 
All doubts that fill my waking hours, 
All troubles that beset my rest; 
Whate'er the griefs, her prayerful eyes 
Shine with no shadow of surprise. 

I think if angels took her hand 

And led her where God's pastures are, 

And knelt her at His feet, He swift 
Would frame her in a splendid star, 

And place her in a sea of light 

To cheer and gladden all the night. 

She is so pure, so pure, so pure 
If all the varied speech of earth 

Were mine to tell her goodness by 
I could not falter half her worth; 

God made her, loved her, found her true, 

That is enough for me and you. 

Only, life grows more beautiful 
While she walks with us unafraid, 

Interpreting with saintly speech 
The heaven in which her soul hath stayed; 

Impressing still its finer sense 

Upon our dull intelligence. 

I tremble for the day to come 

When she, my Dearest, will depart; 

And I bereft . . . with feet that stray. 
Loving, compassionate as Thou art, 

I pray as one in danger durst, 

Take me to Thee, dear Lord, the first. 



"SHARPER THAN A SER- 
PENT'S TOOTH" 

By Caroline Lockhart 



A RE the lights dancing, Eosanna ?" asked the wife of the Mora- 
/\ vian missionary who was darning to quiet her nerves. 
* " Grand \" said Rosanna as she moved, heavy-footed, across 
the spotless plank floor and lifted the chintz curtain. " Ye can almost 
hear them rush. The Narthen Light, here on the Labrador, are a 
proper mystery, Mis' Romig." 

" Run upstairs, Rosanna, and look out to sea/' 

The girl returned, panting. 

" The Huskies 'ave built a fire at the tickle, so ye can't see the 
steamer light till she comes through into the 'arbor; but she'll blow 
beyond the tickle we can 'ear/' 

The wholesome, plain-faced girl seated herself on a stool and 
watched the darning with the eyes of a faithful dog. 

" Will the b'y be big, Mis' Romig?" 

" Of course, Rosanna. He will be sturdy and broad-shouldered like 
his father." 

"And'andsome?" 

" Not so handsome, perhaps, but noble very noble." The face of 
the missionary's wife wore a proud mother-smile. 

" Will ye know him, think ye ?" 

" Know him ? Know Freddie ?" There was happy scorn in the 
voice. " Freddie is twenty-three now. and he was only seven when 
they wrote that we must send him back to England to school." 

" That was hard cruel," said Rosanna, and she shook her head sor- 
rowfully. " The Angland is a lang way from we." 

"Yes, but I knew it would come: it is the rule of our Church. 
Sixteen years ago he went away, and I can remember every one of the 
tiny freckles on his little nose. It was strange, I thought, to freckle 
on the Labrador; but his skin was like velvet and he was in the wind 
all day when the men were making fish, as they call it. Wait till you 
see his eyes, Rosanna. I should know him by his eyes alone. They 
were blue, so blue, like the sky on a winter's night, and they always 
laughed. His warm little heart was in them when he threw his arms 
about my neck and said, 'I love muvver; I love muvver.' His hair 

370 



Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth 371 

would have made you laugh, Rosanna. It was yellow, like ravelled 
rope, and it grew so thick it would stay nowhere. I loved his hair. 

" When he missed me for a moment he would run through the house 
calling, ' Muvver, oh muvver !' He always made me answer, and when 
I asked him what he wanted he would say, ' Nuffin', muvver.' He just 
wanted to know where I was." 

The mother's voice was tremulous with tears, though she smiled 
at the sweet memory. 

Rosanna's eyes were shining. 

" And will he be a good man, a missionary, like Mr. Romig ?" 

"Yes, of course. Perhaps better than his father, for he has had 
advantages his father never had. The Church has educated him to 
take up his father's work among the Esquimaux. Maybe he will marry 
some girl of the Labrador and have his own home near us. Wouldn't 
that be nice, Rosanna?" The missionary's wife put her hand under 
Rosanna's chin and looked into her clear eyes with playful significance. 

"Oh-ee! Oh-ee! Oh-ee!" 

The faint cry brought the women to their feet. 

" The Huskies at the tickle !" 

They clasped their arms about each other and waited. Three hun- 
dred shrill voices at the shore took up the piercing cry. A torch flashed 
past the window. The hoot of a steamer's whistle awoke strange echoes 
in the silent, snow-ribbed mountains. 

" Oh Rosanna, my boy, my little boy ! Help me to get my foolish 
body to the wharf. I am so weak, I tremble so with joy. Oh Freddie, 
my boy, my little boy !" 

The searchlight from the steamer flashed on the village, exposing 
all its pitiful barrenness and squalor to the curious eyes of the tourists 
coming ashore in the ship's boat. In the north, flames of yellow, pink, 
and heliotrope shot into the diamond-studded sky. Along the dark 
shore-line a hundred torches burned above squat figures in clumsy 
woollens. The wife of the missionary stood on the crude wharf, clad 
in hood and thick, 'old-fashioned cloak which had come in a mission 
box winters previous. She clasped her husband's hand in fierce joy as 
together they waited the moment of which they had dreamed through 
all the weary years. 

The ship's boat bumped against the gang-plank. A narrow-chested, 
spectacled youth stepped ashore. His close-set eyes and pallid forehead 
wrinkled in a scowl as an eager Esquimau jostled him and knocked 
his Derby hat from his head. 

" Here, some of you people, take my luggage I" Without looking up, 
he thrust his suit-case into the missionary's hand. 

"Where is he? My son didn't he " began the missionary in 

a voice of anguish. 



372 Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth 

With a glad cry the wife of the missionary flung her arms about 
the stranger's neck, sobbing as she patted his back in ecstasy : " Oh 
Freddie, Freddie, my boy, my dear little boy!" 

The young man drew back and made a gesture as though to put 
from him the woman on his heart. He looked in embarrassment at the 
tourists in the boat, before whom he had posed as an eccentric young 
person going to explore unknown regions of the Labrador. His voice 
was harsh and unnatural as he forced himself to say : " Oh, it's you, 
mother. How are you?" 

He saw only the plain, old face and the grotesque cloak of the 
woman who called him son. He did not see the mother-love which 
made the face beautiful, nor did he feel the yearning, throbbing heart 
beneath the cloak. The eyes of his travelling companions grew cold, 
and he thought it was with disdain of the shabby little woman. She put 
up her lips to be kissed, and he turned his cheek. She clung closer, and 
he drew himself from her arms in an annoyance which he tooks no pains 
to conceal. 

" Frederic, give your mother your arm and go to the house." The 
missionary's face was ashen; his eyes were dead, like a fire gone out; 
but his bent figure had grown stiffly erect and the sternness of his voice 
made the squat men, who loved him, stare. 

The steamer made no more trips ; the snow came ; the harbor froze 
beyond the tickle; a jagged wall of ice shut the sea from the land. 
To the missionary and his wife it seemed as if the cold of the great, 
white North had penetrated their hearts. Their son had brought them 
only pain. He spent his time in the tiny store which belonged to the 
mission. It was there the missionary found him and spoke to him again 
of that which was the important thing in his life. 

Before his son's coming he had not for a moment doubted that the 
boy was coming to share his work. But each time that the subject was 
broached he made evasive replies, and day by day the young man's 
petulant discontent grew more marked. Now, having opened the sub- 
ject, he meant to know the truth. When the truth came, it seemed 
to him more than he could bear. 

" But it isn't right ! It isn't honest ! You are cheating the Church !" 
the old missionary cried hotly. " They have fed you, clothed you, edu- 
cated you to take up my work, and now, if you refuse, you will dis- 
grace me, your mother, yourself. You will be nothing more than a 
common thief. Oh Freddie, don't you see it? Can't you see it?" 

The missionary laid his hand upon his son's shoulder and looked 
pleadingly into the narrow, obstinate face. His withered cheeks were 
flushed, and he trembled with the intensity of his emotion. 

" Ifs no use coaxing and begging me," the young man replied dog- 



Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth 373 

gedly. " I won't be buried alive in this God-forsaken place. As soon 
as the ice goes out and the steamer gets in I'm going back to England. 
You and mother might as well understand that right now. If you feel 
so bad about my taking my living and education from the Church, why 
don't you pay them back? You must have got your little rake-off out 
of the Huskies all the years you've been trading with them. You can't 
make me believe the Church has seen every farthing you have taken in." 

The missionary started as though he had been stung. The sneer, 
the innuendo, the utter meanness of the boy's nature, were like the 
searing of an exposed nerve. 

" You ingrate ! You cur !" 

The young man cowed before the fury in his father's face. 

" You are contemptible beyond belief. You have insulted your 
mother and me ever since you came. We have excused, hidden, endured 
because we have idolized you. We have suffered death a hundred times 
through you 'and been patient, hoping you would change. But you are 
hopeless utterly, absolutely hopeless. There is no good in you. You 
may go. I pray God only that you may go before you break your 
mother's heart and disgrace me in the eyes of these people. 

" I have spoken to you before, now I tell you once for all to keep 
away from Tom Long's wife. It is useless to appeal to your honor, 
for you have none, but your cowardice may check you when I tell you 
that Tom Long is a dangerous man. He does not know yet that all 
the people are laughing at him for his blindness, but he will know, and 
I warn you in time." 

" Oh, is that so ?" sneered the boy with a feeble attempt at defiance. 
" I fancy I can take care of myself when it comes to a scrimmage with 
a blubber-eating Esquimau." 

The missionary looked at his son in silence. His anger had died; 
the flush was gone from his cheek ; he was only a bent old man with a 
face drawn and gray with suffering. 

" God, oh God ! what have I done to deserve this ?" he whispered 
as he turned away. 

"The old geezer's wrothy and no mistake," muttered the young 
man as the door closed behind his father. " Gad, what a racket the 
' Labrador Band' makes to-night !" 

He arose and, walking to the rear of the store, brushed the moisture 
from a pane of glass and looked out. A pack of wolf-dogs howled in 
a pen outside the back door of the store. 

" If Tom Long don't feed Maria any oftener than he feeds his dogs, 
I don't wonder she's ready to go with me. Lord! hear the bloody 
roosters snarl at me." 

There came a tapping at the door, and a Leghorn hat trimmed in 
red calico was thrust through the crack when the door opened. A pair 



374 Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth 

of bright, Chinese-like eyes looked cautiously from under the drooping 
brim. 

" Come in, Maria." 

The woman stepped inside and looked about uneasily. 

" Nobody here. Take off that hideous cloak so I can see you." 

Maria slipped off the clumsy garment to show a rounded figure in 
a dress the fit of which revealed the skilful hand of the missionary's 
wife. Her tiny feet were shod in boots of tanned sealskin. There was 
a brass ring on each of her shapely brown fingers, and she wore a strip 
of yellow mosquito netting tied in a coquettish bow at her throat. The 
Leghorn hat had been sent in a box to the Labrador mission by one of 
those thoughtful souls who sends pulse-warmers to the Equator. The 
hat was the pride of Maria's heart she wore it summer and winter. 
Her black hair, combed and oiled till it shone like silk, was arranged 
in two little, looped pigtails behind her ears. Her face was round, 
sparkling, childish, and her constant smile showed white, even teeth. 

" The old man's been giving me h-11." The missionary's son threw 
wood in the stove and slammed the door viciously. 

"Heel? Yes?" Maria smiled amiably. 

" Never mind, we'll be out of this in a few weeks more. You think 
you can sneak aboard, Maria?" 

"Me? Yes, I sneak." 

" We'll fix you up with clothes when we get to London. Take only 
what you need." 

"Yes," Maria nodded comprehensively, "I take plenty fat and 
the baby seal to the Angland. I warp him down so he make no noise." 

" Well, I rather think not. You leave your fat and your seal behind. 
What is the matter, Maria ?" He was startled at the sudden look of fear 
on the woman's face. 

" I don't know, I feel 'fraid. I feel Tom Long come back." 

" Silly ! He's ten miles inland gorging himself on caribou meat." 

" When he go, he say : ' You no feed dogs meal, no feed dogs f eesh. 
When I come back I give them the big feed.' He look at me like this." 
Maria showed her teeth and gave him a fierce, sidelong glare. " Per- 
haps he know I run away to the Angland when the ice go." 

"He don't know enough to know anything. Come and kiss me, 
Maria." 

" I kiss you, but I go home now. I feel 'fraid, here." She laid her 
hand on her heart. 

" Go home, then. You needn't kiss me, either." In quick ill- 
temper he arose and stood looking out at the half -starved animals in the 
pen. They leaped at the window when they saw him and howled afresh. 

The door closed softly and opened again. He thought it was Maria 
come to appease him, and he waited sulkily. 



Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth 375 

"When you go to the Angland you send me chairs an' sugar an' 
violin-string ?" 

The missionary's son turned, startled. In spite of the softness, even 
humbleness, of Tom Long's tone it made the boy shiver. There was a 
note in it he had never heard before. 

" I send you nothing," he replied in bravado. 

" Yes ? So ? You take Maria and you send me nothing ?" 

With the quickness of a cat the Esquimau stepped back and swung 
the crude weapon which he drew from the pocket of his woollen gar- 
ment. It was a jagged rock sewed i^ the end of a sack, and in the hand 
of the sinewy little savage it felled the missionary's son like the blow 
from a mallet. 

In the missionary's warm sitting-room Eosanna was saying : " A 
Husky never cares for the dogs like we. Tom Long's dogs are fair 
starved. They make me that oneasy with their howlin' that I can 
skerce sit. I have a proper notion to take them a bit of frozen fish. 
They be bellin' it most alike the night they tore the b'y to pieces down 
to Battle 'Arbor. I was visitin' my cousin, Mis' Komig ! I tell ye some- 
thin's wrong with the dogs !" Eosanna, with eyes widened and mouth 
agape, started to her feet and listened. 

" Quick !" she cried, snatching a hood, " come ! 'Tis only when 
they have blood they sound like that I God 'elp us, what can it be ?" 

She flew over the path of beaten snow to the dogpen and drew the 
bolt. In the corner, panting, sobbing, too exhausted to cry out, the 
blood streaming from his face and head, was the missionary's son, 
fighting the maddened brutes with bare hands. 

" Keep your feet ! Don't fall ! Stand up or they'll be on ye ! One 
minute hold out just a minute." 

Eosanna snatched the dog-whip which hung on a nail on the outside 
of the store and rushed again to the pen. She lashed the dogs furiously 
with the long hide thongs, crying encouragement at the same time to 
the half-fainting man. Crazed with the sight and smell of blood, the 
dogs scarcely felt the sting of the lash. Eosanna dropped the whip, 
and with her strong hands tore desperately at one of the upright pickets 
which formed the pen. She was back among the dogs now, close by the 
man's side. As the dogs leaped for his throat she struck them terrific 
blows on the nose and head. Snarling hideously, snapping their white 
fangs at the empty air, they fell back, one by one, to the opposite corner 
of the pen. The missionary's son went down in a heap, and Eosanna 
lifted him as if he were a child and carried him to the house. 

The missionary's wife nursed her boy with all the tenderness of her 
great mother-love, hoping against hope that she might win him back 
and keep him. But when he returned, jubilant, from the shore one 



376 Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth 

day and said that the ice was moving and the sea was filled with floes 
from the north she knew he meant to go. 

And now the first steamer was blowing beyond the tickle. The mis- 
sionary's son stood before the mirror, arranging his hair that it might 
cover the ugly scar on his scalp. His mother watched him with a heart 
which bled till it seemed that her very life had dripped from it. The 
muscles of her throat were contracted she could scarcely speak. 

" Freddie, you'll be a good boy, Freddie and write to 
mother?" 

" Oh, I'll send you a line when I get around to it." His tone was 
as careless as his words; he was thinking of Maria and the kyak she 
had hidden at the shore. Tom Long was safely drunk on rum from a 
Newfoundland fishing schooner. Ah, what sweet revenge when Tom 
Long awoke to find Maria gone! What a lark to exhibit the pretty 
Esquimau woman to his friends in London ! He smiled as he thought 
of their laughter. Perhaps he would send her back after awhile. Per- 
haps 

" The steamer's in." 

The missionary's curt voice startled him. Since that night in the 
store when the old man had turned on him in fury, his father had a 
way of awing him which galled him. He kissed his mother hurriedly, 
his coward's heart pounding in his breast lest Maria commit some faux 
pas, lest Tom Long recover before the steamer raised her anchor, lest 
any of his well-laid plans go awry and expose him to the vengeance of 
a people who hated him. He heard his mother's long cry of mortal 
agony as he went out, but he did not stop to comfort her. When the 
Northern Lights lit the heavens and illuminated the harbor for a 
moment he strained his eyes to watch the dark speck paddling with rare 
skill towards the steamer. 

The ship's boat was at the wharf and the accumulated mail of the 
winter was thrown ashore. The Esquimaux had begged the last tobacco 
from the crew, and the suspense of the missionary's son was almost over. 
The old man took his boy's hand, and by the flare of a smoking torch 
looked deep into his eyes. There was no pride or anger in his face, 
only a great sorrow. 

" May God go with you and help you, Freddie," he said gently. 
" And perhaps if it is His will, when the world has taught you to value 
uprightness and love and loyalty, some day you will come to us again." 

" Perhaps I will," muttered the boy, squirming beneath his father's 
eyes. 

The steamer had blown her last salute. She was through the tickle 
and her lights were tiny colored stars when Tom Long stirred. He 
raised himself from the caribou skins spread over six feet of carefully 
stacked dried fish. The oil-lamp sputtered on the shelf. The house- 



Sorcery 377 

dog slept in the corner, his outstretched head on his paws. The quiet 
was oppressive. Through Tom Long's dazed brain crept the knowledge 
that the steamer was due and Maria was not in the house. He had told 
her not to go to the shore. He sprang to his feet and looked through 
the single pane of glass which distinguished him among his neighbors 
as an ambitious man. He caught a glimpse of the steamer's lights as 
she swung to the southward and disappeared. He gave a yell of impo- 
tent rage. Thirty years of mission influence dropped from him with 
that cry. Tom Long, who played Moody and Sankey hymns on his 
violin in the chapel each Sunday, was only a raw-meat, blubber-eating 
savage shrieking for the blood of his enemy. He drew his long skin- 
ning-knife from its sheath. A white man had brought this shame upon 
him, and a white man should die for it. He felt the keen edge of the 
knife and grunted. 

The door sagging on its leather hinges was pushed softly open and 
a Leghorn hat appeared. Maria's scared face looked from under the 
brim. Tom Long sprang for her and shook her like a rat by the collar 
of her cloak. 

" Where you go ?" he screamed. 

" I go for get you something." Maria smiled, though her lips were 
white. " See ! See ! Look what I bring to you. I go only for you. 
See !" and she held out to him eagerly as he raised his hand to strike 
her one, two, three lumps of sugar, for the possession of which any 
Esquimau would sell his soul. 

Tom Long crammed them into his mouth and looked at her, ap- 
peased. 

" How you get ?" He stopped crunching in sudden suspicion. 

" I sell one pair skinnyhopper to sailor-man," replied Maria glibly. 
She drew more lumps from the capacious pocket of her cloak, lest he 
take her by the throat and make her tell that she had bought them 
from the sailor-man with a kiss. 

"Why you not go with mission b'y?" 

Maria crept under the caribou skins with a squirm of contentment. 
" He no good," she said. " I like Tom Long more better." 



SORCERY 

BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN 

SOME evil touch hath witched the web of life, 
To make a truth, my friend, seem plain to thee, 
Where but a lie is visible to me, 
Some evil touch that breedeth human strife. 



GRADUATES OF THE 
SCHOOL 

By Cyrus Townsend Brady 

Author of "A Little Traitor to the South," " The Southerners," etc., etc. 



THE Daily Gazette was at once the worst and best paper in New 
York. Incidentally, it was also the most successful. Whether 
it succeeded because it was the worst, or because it was the best, 
was a question which neither the proprietors nor the public had ever been 
able to solve. There was a sufficient uncertainty about it to render it 
inadvisable either to elevate it or degrade it further, so long as it con- 
tinued to succeed. 

Of course, the character of a paper depends upon the point of 
view. The Gazette was the best paper in that it gave all the news im- 
mediately, completely, entirely, sparing no expense to collect it and to 
disseminate it. It was the worst paper in that it sometimes stated as a 
fact, with prodigious emphasis, what was afterwards found to be untrue. 
All newspapers do that, but not with the same sensational avidity as 
the Gazette. There was neither modesty, decency, nor self-restraint in 
its make-up. It was the "yellowest" of the so-called "yellow jour- 
nals." Its editorial column reflected the Jekyll and Hyde spirit of the 
paper. Sometimes the editorials were clear, logical, forceful, bril- 
liant appealing to the very highest. At other times false, insincere, 
illogical, specious, sophistical appealing to the very lowest. 

The more reputable press and the more highly cultivated public 
opinion of the city reprehended the Gazette; but everybody bought it, 
read it, discussed it even the clergy ! In any trolley or elevated car 
at any hour of the day there were to be seen more readers of the Gazette 
than of all the other papers in New York. 

Its principal rival was the Union. The Union was better than 
the Gazette in that the proportion of good to bad in its constitution 
was about as three to one. It always seemed as if the Union's people 
emulated the policy of the Gazette and imitated that sheet as 
far as they dared. In other words, a lingering decency or a grovelling 
timidity kept them from being so bad as they might have been. Its 
circulation bore about the same proportion to the circulation of the 
Gazette, only in an inverse ratio, as its morals did, which is a severe 

378 



Graduates of the School 379 

reflection on New York. The existence of both papers was a reflection 
on New York for that matter. But let that pass. The Gazette was 
the apotheosis of literary sharp practices, the Union was a feeble imi- 
tation thereof. Naturally, not being so bad as its rival, the Union 
mistook weakness and timidity for virtue and prided itself on its 
morals ! 

Like sin, there was something in the atmosphere of the Gazette 
that was intensely contagious. It was a marvel how the editor-in-chief 
thereof managed to keep even half of his editorials above suspicion. 
Everybody who worked for the paper fell under the blighting spirit of 
its methods. In its pursuit of news nothing was sacred, no advantage 
was neglected. Facts were obtained and told no matter what the con- 
sequences. The reporters, the various editors, the pressmen, even the 
newsboys, all felt and succumbed to the noxious influence of the paper. 
It had outgrown any mere human control. Its policy was become as 
irresistible as that of Kussia, and its editorial autocrats were as sub- 
missive to it as the Czar to his huge empire. The monster obsessed 
them, the virus in its veins contaminated their own blood with the 
peculiar ichor like to poison. Eeversing the fabulous conduct of the 
pelican towards its young, the offspring of the Gazette finally turned 
upon it and strove to rend it for their own greed usually being rent 
themselves in the process. 

This profoundly philosophical conclusion had not entered the mind 
of young Hollister. Hollister could remember the Gazette when neither 
he nor it was big enough or important enough to attract anybody's 
notice. He had begun as a " printer's devil," when he constituted one- 
eighth of the entire force. He had risen with the Gazette until now 
he was a reporter on its staff, earning forty dollars a week. 

He was familiar with its methods, with its ideas, with its princi- 
ples. He was a part of it, and it was a part of him. If there were any- 
thing particularly disreputable in the reportorial line which required 
address, finesse, and a brutal disregard of private right, Hollister did 
it. He had talent in plenty, even genius, and he was dissatisfied with 
his present position. Not because he disliked to do the things that 
fell to his lot, but because there was not enough money in it for him. 
Like the paper, Hollister was out for the material reward every time. 
As he phrased it, he was not working for his health. He perceived that 
his* talents were not appreciated. His growing dissatisfaction stimu- 
lated him to action at last. After much cogitation he determined upon 
a grand coup, for which he planned with remarkable astuteness. 

One morning he presented himself to Mr. Wilder, the managing 
editor, and handed in his resignation. People as a rule did not last 
long on the Gazette. They were either too strong to stand it and left, 
or were too weak to be of service to it and were dismissed, but Hollis- 



380 Graduates of the School 

ter was a fixture. Why, he had been there before Mr. Wilder himself, 
and such a thing as the Gazette without Hollister was preposterous. 
Yet there was his resignation. In the case of anyone else it would have 
been accepted instantly, but Hollister was different. There was some- 
thing so unusual, so peculiar, in the situation that Wilder discussed it 
with Hollister. 

" Look here, Hollister," he said, " do you mean to tell me that you 
are going to resign from the Gazette?" 

"Yes, Mr. Wilder." 

" What's the matter ? Haven't we treated you right ?" 

" You've treated me well enough, but " answered Hollister 

promptly. 

" Don't you like the work you do ?" interrupted the managing edi- 
tor. " Aren't your associations pleasant ? Isn't everything agreeable ?" 

" Entirely." 

"Why are you leaving, then? Would sixty dollars a week keep 
you?" 

" No, it wouldn't." 

"Well, what's the matter?" 

" The truth is that Mr. Hanson " 

At this Mr. Wilder pricked up his ears. Hanson was the new owner 
of the Union. He had recently bought the paper, and it was rumored 
that he intended to dispute the supremacy of the Gazette by making 
use of the latter journal's methods, and, where he could do so, of the 
latter journal's men. 

" Mr. Hanson," went on Hollister coolly, " who used to know me 
back in Illinois when I was a kid, before I came to New York, and 
who has been watching my work, asked me to be the Sunday editor of 
the Union" 

" What !" cried Wilder. 

" A fact, I assure you," said the younger man gravely. 

" How much does he offer you ?" 

" Ten thousand a year," returned Hollister calmly. 

" Whew !" exclaimed Wilder. 

" So you see," went on the reporter with all the cool assurance of 
his class, " while I like you all and shall be awfully sorry to leave the 
Gazette, I can't afford to refuse an offer like that for a forty dollar a 
week reporter's job, or even for the sixty dollars which you so gener- 
ously offered me a minute ago, which was very kind of you. Hence 
my resignation. Will you see that it is accepted at once, sir ?" 

" Hold on a minute, Hollister !" said Wilder. " I don't mind tell- 
ing you that Jones, our Sunday editor, isn't quite up to the mark. He's 
let a lot of chances get by him for good stuff that's gone elsewhere, and 
the Sunday edition doesn't quite average up to the rest of the Gazette's 



Graduates of the School 381 

sales. Now, if I make you an offer of, say one thousand dollars a month, 
twelve thousand a year, wouldn't you just as soon stay with us as go 
over to the Union ?" 

" Frankly, Mr. Wilder, I would very much rather stay here than go 
anywhere. I would have stayed here for less than the Union offered 
me, but now it's too late/' answered Hollister, his pulses bounding. 

"Too late? How's that?" 

" I saw Mr. Hanson yesterday and told him that as soon as I re- 
signed from here I would accept his offer." 

" Well, you haven't resigned. That is, your resignation isn't ac- 
cepted, and " 

" Well, I might get out of the thing on that technicality," returned 
Hollister meekly. "But it doesn't seem exactly square. We of the 
Gazette have to exhibit an example of honest and honorable journalism 
to the world, you know, sir. You taught us that yourself." 

That fiction about honorable journalism was one of the Shibboleths 
of the Gazette, and although both Hollister and Wilder knew it to be 
a lie, they both nodded gravely as if it were a settled thing, which no 
contingency or emergency could disturb. 

" Of course, of course," answered Wilder. " I see. You're quite 
right." 

His agreement was so hearty that Hollister's confidence in the suc- 
cess of his plan failed him for the moment and something like con- 
sternation came into his breast. However, he said nothing. Mr. 
Wilder, after a momentary hesitation, finally arose. 

" Just wait here, Hollister," he said, leaving the room. 

He had a brief conversation in the office of McKirk, the owner of 
the paper. To this consultation the editor-in-chief was summoned. 
It was promptly decided that if Hollister was worth ten thousand dol- 
lars to the Union he must be worth twelve thousand to the Gazette. 
He must be retained at all hazards. 

" What will become of Jones ?" asked the editor-in-chief, who, be- 
cause half of his editorials were good, really had some conscience left. 

" He'll have to go," said the manager briefly and indifferently ; " a 
man who can't keep up with the procession has no place on our paper. 
We want only the best all the time." 

Unless Jones had been prudent and had laid aside something for 
his old age this doomed him to beggary, for no one who was discharged 
from the Gazette could ever find employment on any other paper, es- 
pecially if he had been identified long enough with the paper to have im- 
bibed its pernicious methods. But that was a matter of small moment 
to everybody on the Gazette. Everyone who worked for the paper real- 
ized the state of affairs, and only entered its service because of the ex- 
travagance of its salaries while they lasted. 



382 Graduates of the School 

" I have consulted the ' old man/ " said Wilder after he returned 
to Hollister, " and he says that my tentative offer holds good. If you 
can get your release from Hanson we'll give you twelve thousand a year 
to act as editor of our Sunday edition." 

" I'm afraid it's no go/' said Hollister with well-simulated mourn- 
fulness. 

" At least you can try it," urged Wilder. 

" Yes, I suppose I can." He pulled out his watch. " I'm going to 
lunch with Mr. Hanson this afternoon at half-past one, it's almost that 
now. If he'll let me off, all right. If he won't I wish you had spoken 
earlier, but really " 

" I'll have the contract drawn up anyway, Hollister," said Wilder 
briskly. " We don't want to lose you/' he added with flattering empha- 
sis on the last word. 

" Thank you, sir. Good-morning," returned Hollister, going out 
sadly, as if overwhelmed for fear Hanson would not release him. 

After giving instructions as to the drawing up of the contract a 
sudden thought struck Mr. Wilder. He hastily summoned one of his 
confidential clerks. 

" Mr. Richards," he said quickly to him, " you know Mr. Hollister, 
of course?" 

" Certainly, sir." 

" He's going to lunch with Mr. Hanson of the Union at half -past 
one. I want you to follow him wherever he goes without being seen 
yourself, of course. Don't let him escape your observation for a mo- 
ment, and let me know as soon as you can just what his movements are 
till he gets back here." 

" Yes, sir." 

About half-after two o'clock Hollister came back to the office of 
the Gazette and presented himself to the managing editor. 

"Well, sir?" asked Mr. Wilder expectantly. 

" I am happy to say," said Hollister pleasantly, " that Mr. Hanson 
most kindly released me." 

"Good!" 

" He said he couldn't stand in my light and " 

"Here are the yearly contracts," said Wilder, handing them over. 
He was very busy and he had no time to waste in useless discussion. 
The thing was settled and he wanted to get rid of it. " They have 
been signed on our part. All you have to do is to sign them and the 
thing's done." 

Having looked them over to see that they were in order, Hollister 
affixed his signature and immediately received the congratulations of 
the managing editor. 

" You can occupy Mr. Jones's office at once," said that functionary. 



Graduates of the School 383 

"Has he been notified?" 

" He hasn't come down yet, but I'll have him informed just as soon 
as he enters the building. As it's Thursday now and getting late, you'd 
better jump in and take a look at the make-up of next Sunday's paper. 
I shall not expect much from you for the first week, you understand, 
but there must be a marked improvement after that." 

"There will be," answered Hollister confidently, bowing himself 
out. 

As he did so Mr. Wilder suddenly recollected the errand upon which 
he had dispatched his confidential clerk. Ringing the bell, he asked 
the messenger if Mr. Richards had returned. 

" Not yet, sir," was the answer, but while the messenger was speak- 
ing Richards, out of breath, burst unceremoniously into the office. 

" Richards," said Wilder sternly, " you're late. I told you to report 
to me immediately he returned on Mr. Hollister's movements. He 
has been here for the last ten minutes. You should have preceded him." 

" He fooled me !" gasped out Richards. " He got into a cab and got 
out on the other side, and I followed the cab until it stopped before I 
found out " 

" So you allowed yourself to be taken in by that stale old trick, did 
you ?" sneered Wilder. " Tim ! Well, what have you to report ?" 

"Hollister went down to the Park Row restaurant after he left 
you " 

" Ah ! And lunched with Mr. Hanson?" 

"No, sir, he lunched alone." 

"He did? Didn't he see Mr. Hanson?" 

" He didn't see anyone. He sat there in the restaurant smoking a 
cigar and reading a paper after lunch until after two." 

" Are you sure ?" 

" Perfectly sure. I had him under observation until he took the 
cab." 

" You are sure that Hollister didn't observe you ?" 

" I think not, sir." 

"You think not! The Gazette pays people like you to know, not 
to think ! It is perfectly evident that he did see you and that he gave 
you the slip in order to get here ten minutes before you. That ten 
minutes was enough, sir! We've been swindled, robbed! It's out- 
rageous! And it's all due to you! The cashier will make out your 
time. We don't want you any longer." 

" This will make a very pleasant story to tell the Union, for in- 
stance, won't it ?" said Richards coolly and bravely. " And there are 
other things that I can tell. I haven't been your private secretary and 
confidential clerk for the last two years without knowing something 
about this paper, Mr. Wilder." 



384 October 

" Well, I'll be damned !" ejaculated Wilder, furious with rage. " I 
won't have you around another minute! Get out of here!" 

"You don't have to have me around, Mr. Wilder, but you won't 
fire me, nevertheless, I think. There's that Washington correspondent's 
position that I've wanted so long." 

" Oh, very well," said Wilder savagely. A momentary reflection 
had convinced him of the strength of Richards's position. It was im- 
pregnable for the present. So too, he realized as his eyes fell upon the 
contracts, was Hollister's ! " I'll see that you get it then," he added, 
" but you won't hold it very long," he muttered under his breath as he 
went out. " And as for you, Mr. Hollister, I'll fix you ! Think of it ! 
And I trained both these men myself !" 

The next thing he did was to take the elevator and repair to the 
office of the proprietor. To him he told the story regarding both Hol- 
lister and Richards. 

" Um !" said the proprietor. " Pretty bad, isn't it? But after all, 
Wilder, both these youngsters got the better of you, and Hollister got 
the better of me and the editor-in-chief too, and we're the finest news- 
paper men in New York, I take it. Pretty shrewd of them. They're 
a pair of swindlers, but if they're smart enough for that I guess we 
haven't done so badly, after all, in retaining them. They're the kind 
of men we want on the Gazette." 



OCTOBER 

BY LULA CLARK MARKHAM 

1SEE her crowned among the meadows here, 
Voluptuous and velvet-eyed and strong, 
Queen odalisque of all the lovely throng 
Who reign in the seraglio of the Year. 
Her scarlet draperies flutter with her clear, 
Loud laughter, and her bacchanalian song 
Shakes the blue silence, and then dies among 
The death-pale asters weeping o'er the weir. 

The trumpet winds blare out her high acclaim, 
Her gorgeous oriflammes flaunt from the hills, 
Her purple incense all the valley fills, 
The goldenrods die whispering her name, 
The trees bend blushing with delicious shame 
'Neath the dread rapture of her kiss which kills. 



VOL. LXXIV NUMBER 442 

LIPPINCOTTS 

MONTHLY MAGAZINE 

OCTOBER, 1904 




A LAD'S LOVE 

BY KARL EDWIN HARRIMAN 



A LAD AND A LASS 

FOE a long time everyone on the Island, from Mrs. Gibson to 
little Michael McCann, had known that one day Margaret 
Kergan and Brian Dean would wed. Indeed, Mrs. Gibson in 
the course of a one-sided conversation with Father Hennessey observed 
on an occasion, "Why don't they do it now, yer Eiv'rance, an' have 
done with it; shure an' it's written fer them t' wed." Father Hennes- 
sey, clasping his hands over his stomach, is said to have replied, " Give 
them time, Missus Gibson; everything takes time." 

"They've had all thayre lives," Mrs. Gibson chirped smartly. 
" What more do they want ?" 

And so they had. As children, toeing the hot dust of the Island 
road, Brian Dean had been Margy Kergan's ragged cavalier and knight. 
Now in the full flush of the splendid youth that was theirs they were 
sweethearts, their troth long since plighted solemnly at the edge of the 
wood on the West Shore, where the afternoon sun was wont to trans- 
form the Lake into a great, gleaming breadth of green satin shot with 
gold. 

"They're a sight fer sore eyes," was Mrs. Gibson's habitual com- 
ment when it chanced that she saw them together from the uneven 
porch of the Island House, of which she had, these long years gone, 
been mistress. 

And so they were Brian in his youthful strength (he could send a 
boat eighty feet at a stroke) and Margy in the lithe beauty of her 
blossoming womanhood. 

Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. All rights reserved. 
VOL. LXXIV. 13. 386 



386 A Lad's Love 

Something of what they represented was apparent even to Mrs. 
Kergan, who always awaited them in the doorway of the little white 
house nestling among the trees at the edge of the clearing, and often 
did she talk with Father Hennessey of her Margy and her Brian. 

This was to have been their summer. All winter Margy had planned 
for the wedding that was arranged for the autumn, and her heart had 
been light accordingly and her spirit gay as gay as the flowers that 
grew at the wood edge. 

Now it was as though her heart were lead in her bosom, for Brian 
was going away to Chicago, City of Dreams, across the Lake. All 
the afternoon, in the cool of the woods, for May had come in hot, 
they had talked of the plans that he had made over night. Now that 
it was settled, for Margy had not raised her voice against his departure, 
though her heart cried out, there was nothing further to do. 

The yellow sun was low in the west as they issued from the wood, 
and some of the violet cloud-tints were reflected on the sheen of the 
Lake. 

There was a log there, at the edge of the clearing, and they sat 
down. 

" You're going away," she half whispered as she gazed out across 
the water. 

Brian looked down at the dust-filled wrinkles of his heavy boots. 

" It won't be long," he said. 

" I know it won't be, really," she replied, looking up at him and 
smiling, " but it will seem so long." 

" Oh, pshaw ! the summer will go before you can say ' Jack Kobin- 
son,' " he insisted. 

She shook her head. 

" It will for you," she said, " there in Chicago." She clasped her 
hands over her round knee and gave her head a little toss that shook 
off her sunbonnet, which thereafter she allowed to hang between her 
shoulders. " It'll be like another world, won't it ?" she went on as 
though speaking to herself. " It'll be awful lonesome," she added, with 
a little catch in her voice. 

" Oh, no, it won't, either, Margy. Haven't you got your mother and 
father and Father Hennessey and Mrs. Gibson and all the rest ?" 

"Brian," she asked, disregarding the speech and its assurance, 
" you're not tired of the Island, are you ?" 

"No," he answered gropingly, "I'm not tired of it. I'm happy 
here. You're here. I'm restless, that's all. Being away a little while 
will do me good. Then I'll come back." 

She had not taken her eyes from his face, but now that he hesitated 
she let them fall and stared unseeing at the moss beside her, zealous to 
hide the tremor that she felt upon her lip. 



A Lad's Love 387 

"It ain't that I'm tired of the Island/' he went on as though to 
himself. "I'm only uneasy. I guess you've taught me." 

" I !" she cried. 

He laughed. " Not the way you think," he explained. " Only 
you've shown me lots of things. You're happy here because all you 
want is here. I know how you feel. You like the birds and the 
squirrels and the woods. I like them all too, but I want more. It'll 
satisfy me to go away a while. I wouldn't be surprised any if I wanted 
to get back just as much as I want to go now. Father Hennessey 
says it'll do me good." 

" So that's the surprise you said you had for me. And you're going 
Saturday." 

Her voice trembled and she caught her breath. 

"Don't feel bad, Margy," he said tenderly. "It won't be long; 
and then I'll come back, and we'll be married." 

" If I'd only known it, it wouldn't be so hard," she mourned. 

"I suppose I ought to have let you know," he replied, "but I 
thought it would only make it worse." 

She smiled her forgiveness. 

" For I haven't decided all at once," he went on defensively. " I've 
been thinking it over ever since last fall. But you hadn't ought to 
take it hard, Margy ; it'll mean so much for us." 

Her eyes, which she lifted to his, were moist, as though a filmy 
curtain had fallen over them, behind which they glowed. 

He was encouraged by no remonstrance from her to a lighter tone. 

" Just think how much it'll mean !" he exclaimed quite gayly. " I'll 
get good wages. Why, I'll get more than any fisherman on the Island 
can make. Martin told me that after I'd been there a month I'd be 
getting half again as much as they start me on. Besides," this eagerly, 
-" I'll be seeing the world. In the end it'll mean our own house here 
on the Island, for we sha'n't live with your folks or my brother. And 
then we'll live here always." 

" And never go away for good ?" she speculated earnestly. 

He shook his head. " Of course not," he assured. " That's what 
I've planned. I've talked it over with Father Hennessey. He said 
all the young fellows on the Island ought to get away a while said 
it would do 'em good. He had a talk with Martin and told me what 
he said; said the Company wanted somebody from the Island and 
Martin didn't think of me till Father Hennessey mentioned how I'd 
like to go. He intended seeing Jerry McCann. And, Margy, I've 
never been anywhere off the Island in my life except to Mackinac once 
and Charleton." 

" But Chicago's just like Charleton." 

He laughed boisterously. 



388 A Lad's Love 

A little look of hurt came into her eyes. 

"Ain't it?" she asked. 

"Why, Chicago's got more'n a million people," he explained, sen- 
sible of his superior knowledge. " And there ain't nobody in Charleton 
except summer boarders and folks that have cottages." 

" Seems to me/' she replied with a little laugh, " there must be 
about a million there, from the number that come across in those little 
launches to picnic here in the woods and make us old Island people 
mad." 

He shifted his position restlessly. 

" Anyway, I'll be back the first of November," he said, " maybe in 
October. It won't be long. May's going fast now." 

She sat up and leaned towards him, her chin in her hands. 

"Brian," she began calmly, "when you're there in that big city, 
with so many people around you, and so much to see, and you've got 
so much to do, you won't forget" her voice caught " you won't forget 
the Island, will you?" 

Insensible as he was to the pain that lurked behind each word, still, 
something of what his answer meant to her, something of the fear she 
tried to smother in her heart, were given him to know. 

"Why, I couldn't forget, Margy," he exclaimed, and reached out 
one hand and stroked her hair, "for I'll always want to come back 
where you are ; and then one day I'll come, for I'll know you're waiting 
for me just as I'll be waiting to come to you, even," he smiled mistily, 
" even if there's ten million folks around." 

The great joy that was hers that instant shone in her eyes as she 
sprang to her feet. 

" Kiss me, Brian," she cried, and held out her arms. 

The sinking sun gilded the quivering edge of the Lake, and as they 
approached the little white house among the trees Margy's mother 
awaited her in the doorway. Her father had sailed across to Charleton 
after dinner and had not yet returned. 

"I was lookin' fer ye, Margy," Mrs. Kergan called in her rich 
brogue. " Th' supper's on th' table." 

"I'm coming," the girl replied, and ran to her, leaving Brian to 
follow at his slower pace. 

As he came up Margaret said : 

" He's going away, mother ; he's going on Saturday." 

Mrs. Kergan raised both hands. 

" Arrah, my bye, an' arre ye, now !" she cried. 

She insisted that he make known his purpose then and there. 

"Well, Brian, bye, we'll miss ye," she exclaimed heartily when 
he had done. " But I'm afther thinkin' 'twill be Margy as will miss ye 



A Lad's Love 889 

most of all, she bein' th' one t' see ye oftenest." She cast a tender 
glance at her daughter and slipped a stout arm around her waist. 

Brian laughed forcedly. "Yes, I suppose so/' he said, "but it's 
only for the summer. Margy understands/' he added quickly. 

" An' what does yer brother, Terrance, say ?" Mrs. Kergan asked. 

"He's glad." 

"Arrah, t' be sure," she nodded. "Tis well for th* byes, an' th' 
gurrls too, f'r th' matter o' that, t' see suthin' o' th' worrld afure a-sit- 
tlin' down. Luk at Margy, here," and she gave the girl a little hug, 
"niver wanst in her life has she been farther away from this ould 
Island than Charleton. Have ye ?" 

Margaret shook her head. 

"But thin," her mother went on volubly, casting a heavy wink at 
Brian, " as near as I'm a-seein' she'll be a-goin' off wan iv these days." 

" Mother !" the girl cried, a blush mounting her cheek. Brian 
laughed. 

" I wouldn't wonder," he said. 

" Oh ! ho !" laughed Mrs. Kergan boisterously. " So you think so 
yoursilf, do ye? Well, thin, let's have supper. I told yer father it's a 
cowld one he'd be 'atin' if he wasn't here." 

Yet even as she spoke a long, faint halloo floated across the water 
to where they stood and all three turned. A cat-boat was making for 
the shaky dock that ran some fifty feet into the Lake. 

" An' thayre he comes now ; he must 'a' heard me !" Mrs. Kergan 
cried. She ran lumberingly down to the beach and out upon the narrow 
dock. She skilfully caught the line her husband cast and made fast 
the boat as the sail with an ineffectual flap fell to the boom. 

" Good-night." 

Margaret felt Brian's hand on hers. They stood in the shadow of 
the narrow porch. He drew her to him and kissed her. 

" Good-night," she whispered. 

They stood thus an instant, close, bathed in the golden glow of 
sunset. 

" You'll come back, Brian ?" she said. 

" I promise." 

He left her then, and from the porch she followed with her eyes 
his tall, straight figure until it was lost in the black wood, from which 
the light had long since fled. 

And that night, in her loneliness, her mother came to her and 
patted her cheek. 

" Thayre, thayre, darlin'," she comforted, " he'll be a-comin' back." 

" I know, mother," was the dreary answer, " but it will be so long." 



390 A Lad's Love 

n. 

ON A MORNING IN MAT 

A FOG hung over the Lake. Through the gray film of gossamer 
the sun of early summer glowed like a huge red wafer suspended from 
the sky. Near things were draped with the dripping lace and distant 
objects were ghost-gray. The docks on the East Shore were shrouded, 
and the long, low packing-house beyond loomed cold, distorted, endless. 

At the end of the Company's wharf, rising and settling rythmically, 
was tied the trim steam fishing lugger Jane, in the day before from 
Chicago and due to return straightway. A spiral of pale smoke rose 
from the stack a scant three feet, where, encountering a heavier stratum 
of air, it hung, a splotch of thin smudge against the fog. 

Captain Spriggs, born within sight and sound of salt water, but 
forced by a cavorting fate to spend his days sailing the Lakes, much to 
his often-voiced disgust, sat over his beans and pork and perch and 
coffee, in the Widow Gibson's waxen Island House kitchen, grumbling 
beneath his breath and scowling beneath his bushy iron-gray eyebrows. 
Apart from his ever-cherished disgust that he should be a " tea-cup 
sailor," as it was his wont to characterize those who go down to the 
Lake in ships, Captain Spriggs had other reasons for testiness this 
morning that even the delectable viands set before him by the Widow 
failed to overshadow. There was the fog. Captain Spriggs had 
planned to get away at sun-up. Awakening at the usual hour, he had 
failed to locate the sun. Now at seven-thirty its value to him was still 
obscured by the curtain of mist behind which it glowed. And he was 
going to have a passenger going over. Captain Spriggs detested pas- 
sengers, both in the abstract and concrete, with all the fervor possible 
to a Lake merchant-mariner. 

" Damn it !" he growled, " th' Jane wa'n't made fer passengers t' be 
lollin' 'roun' on, a-heavin' up their insides 'cause she smells a mite fishy. 
They ain't got no place on her, an' when I git back I'll tell 'em so \" 
And as he spoke he removed with his stubby forefinger the entire spine 
of a fragrant, breaded perch. 

" Lucky 'tain't a woman," observed Jamison, his mate, who sat 
opposite, as across his bristly lips he drew the cuff of his heavy jacket. 

" Womin be blamed !" growled Captain Spriggs. " No, sir ! Next 
time they give me a woman t' lug over here 'n' back I resigns even if 
'tis th' President's daughter." 

Jamison smiled at recollection of the occasion to which Captain 
Spriggs referred. Flossie Hershey had for one day and a night owned 
the steamer Jane from keel to stack. 

From behind the stove came Mrs. Gibson's shrill cackle. 

" Don't ye be slanderin' that little gurrl now, Cap'n, fer a smarter 
one niver lived less'n it be Margy Kergan." 



A Lad's Love 391 

" Ugh/' granted the worthy master of the Jane. 

" Do ye ivir see her ?" asked Mrs. Gibson. 

" She's been picked, I'm told/' replied Captain Spriggs. 

" Been what ?" shouted Mrs. Gibson, and Jamison, even, looked up 
from his beans. 

" She's goin' t' be married so Macey was sayin' t' th' feller that 
was here with her that time." 

" Yeh don't tell me !" observed Mrs. Gibson. 

" Both wearin' a ring jes' alike, Macey was sayin' an engagement 
ring." 

" Aye, gar, I remember !" exclaimed Mrs. Gibson, coming from be- 
hind the stove ; " thin they were ingaged whin they was here last sum- 
mer. She showed me her ring kinder proud loike, and he had one, th' 
same a red one, all in gold." 

Captain Spriggs nodded. 

" An' will they be over this summer ?" the mistress of the Island 
House inquired. 

" He may Macey was sayin' in July mebbe," the Captain replied. 

" Have you seen young Dean ?" asked Jamison indifferently. 

"Naw!" Crunch. 

" Martin was sayin' we'd have t' wait till he shows up." It was 
as though Jamison spoke thus insinuatingly merely for the effect his 
suggestion would produce upon his irascible Captain. The effect was 
immediate. 

Captain Spriggs slammed his knife on the table. 

"Wait be " 

His sudden swallowing of the oath that rose contemptuously to his 
lips was due to the quick return to the kitchen of its alert and chasten- 
ing manager, who for a moment had gone out upon the porch to note 
the condition of the fog. 

"Shure," she exclaimed, "an' betwane th' fog an' th' trouble iv 
me own bad asthma I mos' fergot ye, Cap'n." 

She snatched a yellow bowl that stood upon the table and stirred 
the golden contents vigorously. 

"Howld yer lines," she cried, and with a marvellous dexterity of 
wrist flipped great spoonfuls of the potion on the smoking griddle. 

" What's them ?" inquired Captain Spriggs, rising in his chair and 
peering over the head of the Mate. 

" Ye have two guesses," replied the Widow Gibson mockingly. 
" Buckwheat !" said the Mate. 

" Buckwheat nawthin' !" exclaimed the mistress of the Island House. 
: 'Tis too late in th' sayson fer th' loikes iv thim." 
" Corn !" ventured Captain Spriggs. 
Mrs. Gibson shrieked. " Arrah, ye've guessed it," and as the Captain 



392 A Lad's Love 

settled back into his chair, a smile of ineffable pleasure giving way to 
his habitual scowl, Mrs. Gibson, with another exhibition of digital dex- 
terity, flipped the browning cakes upon the griddle. Presently she held 
out to him a heaping plate from which he removed four of the smoking 
discs, buttering them straightway and flooding them with syrup from 
the blue-ware pitcher. Captain Spriggs finished his meal in silence, and 
when he had done he pulled a long breath. 

"Ah, 'twas a good breakfast!" he exclaimed. Seizing his great 
sou'wester, he stamped out of the kitchen with the noise that always 
marked his movements, and at the door plumped square into the arms 
of the sleek, round Father of the Island Parish. 

"Well, well, well, Captain Spriggs/' he gurgled. "An' how arre 
ye an' how's th' Jane? A bad day; a day t' stay ashore, Cap'n. An' 
so yer takin' wan of our byes back t' Chicago with ye ! Well, no matter ; 
we've enough an' to spare. But ye have th' best in Brian Dean; ye 
have the best." 

During this characteristic greeting he had continued to shake the 
fretting Captain's claw-like hand in his own, so smooth and fat. 

"Do ye know kin he work?" Spriggs asked tersely, at last with- 
drawing his hand from the Father's grasp. 

" Ha, ha !" laughed the Priest, giving the Captain a playful thrust 
in his lean ribs with a pudgy forefinger. " Give him a chance. He'll 
soon show ye." 

The old Lake mariner cocked an experienced eye at the crimson sun 
and the wrinkles deepened around his nose. 

" It won't take long t' tell," he observed dryly, " fer if that fog don't 
lift there'll be whoopin' hell t' pay, fer I'm a-goin' fog er no fog." 

Suddenly realizing his profanity in the presence of the cloth, he 
plunged down the steps and was gone. As for Father Hennessey, he 
laughed; he held both his sides in the good old monkish way and 
laughed loud and long. But entering the kitchen and encountering 
Mrs. Gibson's amazed face he assumed a look of shocked sobriety and 
told her of his collision with the Captain, whereat she laughed with him 
as she poured a cup of coffee for him. Brian came before he had finished 
with it. Father Hennessey had quite forgotten that it was the day set 
for his departure for Chicago, and he put his cup on the chair-arm and 
at once began a dissertation on the wickedness of the great city across 
the Lake that would have amused a resident of that city far more than 
it did Brian. 

Brian laughingly assured the Priest that his advice would not be 
forgotten, and they went down to the dock together. 

Captain Spriggs was aboard the Jane, but, perceiving them, came 
to the rail and called down a shrill halloo to the Priest. 

" Fog er no fog, we're a-goin'," he piped. 



A Lad's Love 393 

A cry sounded behind them just then, and both Father Hennessey 
and Brian turned. At the top of the steep bank just beyond the fish- 
shed, her figure sharply outlined against the gray sky, stood Margy. 
She came quickly down the uneven slope, the swing of her lissome body 
suggesting the movements of some splendid animal. She was bare- 
headed, and the red sun shining through the thinning mist seemed to 
convert her reddish hair to glistening gold. Brian set his fat oil-cloth 
valise on the dock and went to meet her. 

" Well, well, well ; ain't you ever goin' t' come aboard ?" 

Captain Spriggs's rasping voice cut the stillness again. 

" Good-by, Margy/' Brian said. Their hands clasped, and for a 
little instant their eyes met frankly, confidently. " In October maybe 
sooner," he promised. 

Lines were cast off at once, and the same instant, as though by 
magic, the fog lifted, revealing the sun, yellow now above the Lake. 

In the stern of the little steamer, leaning upon the low rail, stood 
Brian, his shiny valise on the deck beside him, gazing back at the un- 
dulating line of the Island, hung from nothing between two blue skies. 
For a long time the figures on the dock remained distinct, but finally, 
as he watched, they became one with the wood beyond. 

III. 

DEAD DAYS 

" COME, Margy," the Priest said, and laid a gentle hand on the 
girl's shoulder. 

She turned and stared at him an instant perplexedly, then uttered 
a little, nervous laugh. 

" I guess I was dreaming," she said. 

Father Hennessey smiled. 

"Aye, I'll wager," he exclaimed boisterously. 

She walked beside him, along the unstable dock, languidly, her 
eyes bent upon the uneven timbers at her feet. As they stepped into 
the road at the end Mrs. Gibson appeared on the back porch of the 
Island House, wiping her hands on her blue-checked apron. 

She caught sight of the figures in the road and stood, squinting. 

" Well, th' saints bless me if it ain't Margy Kergan !" she exclaimed ; 
then, lifting her voice to a piping staccato, she called : 

"Mar-^ee/ Margy Kergan! Come 'long over here if His Eiv- 
rance'll let ye !" 

The girl looked up, and a light of pleasure flared an instant in 
her eyes. 

" I'm comin' !" she called back, and ran down the road. The 
Priest, less alert upon his feet, followed with a more becoming dignity. 



394 A Lad's Love 

As she came up to the porch Mrs. Gibson, as was her custom, burst 
into a torrent of welcome. 

" Come, yer Kiv'rance," she called over her shoulder, as she drew 
the girl within the kitchen, " shure it's airly yet; th' boiler's not off 
th' stove an' thayre's a hot cup o' coffee waitin'." 

"Ah, oh," Father Hennessey gurgled, and rubbed his fat hands 
vigorously. 

" Thayre, Margy, gurrl," the Widow exclaimed as she set a cup of 
steaming coffee on a corner of the clean, white table, " drink it ; 'twill 
do ye good." 

Father Hennessey settled himself comfortably into the armchair at 
the window and Mrs. Gibson served him with a cup, then passed a 
yellow bowl of round, fat doughnuts. 

Margaret blew ripples across the surface of the pungent morning 
drink, dearer to the Island people than their food, but Father Hen- 
nessey, eager to feel the oily liquid in his throat, poured the contents of 
his cup into the saucer and drank it thus, balancing the cup on the 
arm of the chair. 

Mrs. Gibson, her hands on her hips, stood in the middle of the floor 
and watched her guests, her eyes twinkling with delight at the obvious 
pleasure of the Priest, who smacked his lips resoundingly upon each 
mouthful of his doughnut. 

" Margy, how's th' hens ?" she asked suddenly. " Shure an' thayre's 
not an egg in th' house !" 

Margaret smiled over the rim of her cup. " Maybe I could bring 
down a dozen," she chanced. 

Presently she pushed back her chair. 

" I must go," she said, " there's lots to do at home." 

Mrs. Gibson turned from the sink and wiped her hands on her 
blue-checked apron. 

" Must ye, darlin' ?" she said. " Thayre ! And she planted a loud 
kiss upon the girl's smooth cheek. " Now, don't forgit th' eggs," she 
cautioned. 

Then, shifting her eyes to the window, her mouth opened and she 
squinted, pointing. 

" What is it ?" Margaret whispered, and turned. 

There in the deep armchair, the sunlight playin